


The World Historical

by coyotesuspect



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Philosophy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotesuspect/pseuds/coyotesuspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College AU: Les Amis de l'ABC is a student activist group, and Enjolras a budding (and abrasive) community organizer. Grantaire just likes to show up and doodle cartoons on Enjolras's flyers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> With deep gratitude to familiardevil, for the hand-holding, cheerleading, and help with characterization.

**September**

A gust of wind blew through the open window and sent the stacks of paper on Enjolras's desk swirling around the room. He swore under his breath and lunged to grab them, casting a suspicious eye to the weather outside. It had been a sunny morning and stayed sunny through most of the afternoon, but now with the advent of evening, clouds had swept in from the north and the wind had a chill bite. Poor weather could affect the turn-out for the night's community organizing workshop. 

He gathered the papers quickly and re-sorted them into their piles. They were a mixture of things, the syllabi from his first week of classes, a list of names and e-mail addresses from everyone who had attended the first Les Amis de l’ABC meeting of the year, flyers for an October march on gun violence, and several blank sign-up sheets he was bringing with him to the workshop. He paused as he rifled through the papers; there was a small drawing on the bottom of the Les Amis meeting roster. A pretty, curly-haired figure, hands clasped to their chest, was swooning like a woman on the cover of a romance novel, into the arms of a vaguely anthromorphized France. 

"Oh Patriaaa," said the small figure, in a wild, flourishing script. 

It was clearly meant to be Enjolras. 

Enjolras studied the cartoon for a moment. Even without the scrawled R in the corner of the drawing, he would have known the artist. This wasn't the first time he'd found Grantaire's absurd doodles on various Les Amis documents. Enjolras scowled a bit. The drawing was, he could admit, technically good; it managed to look like him even while retaining Grantaire's own style. 

Enjolras had been surprised to see Grantaire still around at the start of the year. Grantaire was at least a couple years older than him, and so should have graduated by now. But he had been there at the first meeting of the year, feet on the table and a dark smirk on his lips. Enjolras suspected Grantaire was going to turn into one of those students who never left, just floated around for a years, taking a couple classes a semester until they were suddenly 30.

He shoved the papers into his bag, then rose to his feet and shut the window. The sky was dark; he made a mental note to bring his umbrella.

***

There were, at a quick count, close to fifty people in the room, not including already active members of Les Amis. It was a pretty good turnout, and Jehan and Bahorel were already working the room, getting people to agree to meet one-on-one with members. Enjolras nodded to himself, satisfied, and reviewed the handful of notes he had made for the presentation. This was his third year at university, and his second year giving this particular workshop. He made out a few familiar faces in the crowd; students who weren't members of Les Amis, but still peripherally involved in campus activism. 

And then there was Grantaire, who was a member of Les Amis only if physical presence counted as membership. He was slouched at the end of the third row, next to Marius and a blonde girl Enjolras didn't recognize. Grantaire glanced up in time to catch Enjolras looking at him. He smiled slowly and raised the flask he was holding in Enjolras's direction, then tipped it back to drink. His throat worked. Enjolras flushed. 

Combeferre clasped Enjolras on the back. "Ready?" he asked, grinning. 

Enjolras glanced away from Grantaire quickly. The irritation he'd felt at the cartoon had returned. He felt prickly, tense. 

"Of course," he said. He pocketed his notes and checked the time on his watch. The meeting had technically begun three minutes ago, which meant it was time to start speaking. He stalked to the lectern and rapped his knuckles against it. The crowd fell quiet in a slow wave. 

"Hello everyone," he said, voice filling the room. He could feel Grantaire's eyes on him. "Thank you for coming to Community Organizing 101. My first question for you all is, how does one define _power_?" 

Enjolras led the workshop for half an hour, and then stepped off the stage to allow Combeferre to bring things back to Earth. He accepted a cup of water from Jehan and listened idly as Combeferre entertained the crowd with an anecdote about, “Saul Alinsky organizing the world’s first shit-in Chicago back in the 60s.” 

The crowd laughed, and even Enjolras had to smile. He and Combeferre made a good team; he had the soaring rhetoric, Combeferre the politician’s patter. Enjolras scanned the audience; everyone seemed in good spirits. In the back of the room, Courfeyrac and Joly had begun setting up pizza for the end of the presentation. 

“And if you haven’t already,” Combeferre was saying, wrapping the workshop up, “I really encourage you to sign up for a one-on-one. It’s a great way to meet members of Les Amis and get involved in community activism, and, of course, we get to learn what causes you, the student body, are passionate about and want to organize around.” He winked and gestured at Enjolras. “And if you’re lucky, you may end up having one with Enjolras, and who wouldn’t want a coffee date with him?”

There was a titter of laughter, and Enjolras rolled his eyes in exasperation. He caught Grantaire looking at him then, eyes lidded and mouth turned up, as if he’d never looked away. 

***

Enjolras’s possessions, such as they were, numbered thusly: a bed, a desk, a pot, a pan, a hot plate, two mugs, a coffee maker he could barely work, a week’s worth of clothing, the requisite toiletries for basic cleanliness, a cell phone, a laptop, those supplies which were necessary for school, and books, a great many books. He rarely used his phone, and never to send messages or make calls of a personal nature; he didn’t own a music player nor listen to music. There were no pictures on his wall, and his facebook existed only so that he could organize the student body more effectively. 

He was not poor. He was the only child of rich parents, and while he had not seen them for the better part of the year, he, unlike Marius, had not been cut off from their aid, a fact he was intermittently grateful for and resentful of. His relationship with his parents was cordial; they had always seemed a bit nonplussed by the intensity of their son, and had, at the age of eleven, set him off to one of the country’s best boarding schools. Now at college, he saw them perhaps once a year. 

He was only currently in the apartment that he was because he had spent the summer effectively homeless. He had stored his books at Combeferre’s apartment and slept on the couches of various friends and comrades, the nights he wasn’t sleeping in a tent for Occupy Paris. Word had somehow reached his parents, and the bargain for retaining financial assistance for university had been also actually renting an apartment. 

Enjolras had seriously considered dropping out. 

His asceticism was directed towards the Revolution; for Enjolras, the Revolution was a mania, a transcendent fact, a teleology, and a holy creed. He was a man of the Left, dedicated to liberating all mankind, in which the freedom of each would be necessary for the freedom of all. It was a difficult thing to be, a man of the Left in a post-modern age. Enjolras was, in many ways, an anachronism.

But there were always students with vague aspirations to justice who, even if they did not couch their politics in terms of a clear arc towards world-emancipation, were appalled by poverty, racism, classism, and all the other isms and prejudices of society. 

That was where Les Amis d’ABC came in. They were a student solidarity group and allied themselves with community and social justice organizations around the city, turned the student body out to protests and rallies of all kinds, and acted as the instigating force in any confrontation between the students and administration over student issues. The school recognized their existence officially, but just barely. They had no designated meeting space, and so met in the Musain, a student run coffee shop. 

Enjolras had no patience for organizations like Platypus, who sat around, calling each other comrade and going down an ever deepening rabbit hole of, _Oh but monsieur to understand Zizek you really must read Lacan_ , and showed up to protests only under the guise of “seeing the activist Left in its natural habitat.” 

Enjolras was not particularly fond of the drudge-work of community organizing either, of which one-on-ones were a fundamental part. But at least he could recognize their necessity. 

After the workshop, they had collected a list of twenty-seven names, all people interested having one-on-one meetings. The names had been divided between the seven of them with the most experience in Les Amis, and Enjolras had two scheduled for the afternoon. He was currently waiting at the Musain for ‘Cosette Fauchelevent.’ The name was familiar, in a vague way. 

“Enjolras,” said a sweet, high voice. He looked up from his book. It was the blonde girl who had been seated next to Marius at the workshop. She held out her hand, and he took it. “I’m Cosette.” 

Enjolras inclined his head. “It’s good to meet you,” he said. “Are you friends with Marius?” Marius was probably the one he had heard Cosette’s name from; Marius was often twittering on about various pretty girls. He had the roving eye of Courfeyrac and the romantic soul of Jehan. 

Cosette flushed slightly and took the seat across from him. “I suppose. I only met him a week ago.” She twisted a ring on her hand and smiled wanly. “I’m a transfer student.”

“Ah.” Enjolras opened his notebook, and wrote _Cosette_ in a neat, small hand at the top of the first blank page. “Are you enjoying it here so far?”

“I am! At least, I think so.” She smiled again. She was a nervous smiler. “My classes are very interesting, at least.” 

“And what are you studying?”

“Music,” she laughed. “And education. I’d like to be a teacher. What about you? Politics, I should expect.” 

Enjolras smiled slightly. “Philosophy, actually. Though people always find that surprising. Did you enjoy our workshop?”

“I did, very much so. You’re a very dynamic speaker. I get flustered just having to speak to a couple people.”

Enjolras shrugged rather than accept the praise. “So what’s your interest in Les Amis?”

“Well,” she bit her lip, “my Papa and I have always been very involved in charity work, and I thought I would like to get involved in something like that on campus.” 

Enjolras studied her carefully. She seemed sweet, certainly interested in the plight of others. But there was a certain militancy required of members of Les Amis which people like Cosette, intent on helping others but blind to the requisite structural changes, often lacked. Marius was one such person, more a centrist than a leftist, and someone who often spoke approvingly of the American president, as if he weren’t a war criminal and the two American parties not close-enough to slow dance. 

“You realize, Cosette,” he said politely, “we are not a community service organization, but a community activism one?” 

Cosette nodded quickly. “Oh no, I know. This is just, well it’s very interesting, and Marius is involved and so I thought, well this is something I hadn’t done before, maybe I could get a new perspective on things.” 

He jotted down a few more notes, nodding as he did so. “So what issues are you passionate about?”

“Education,” she said promptly. “Obviously, and poverty, especially homelessness.” Her face turned a bit red, and she dropped her eyes. “I’ve started volunteering at a local shelter. You should come sometime!” 

“Perhaps,” said Enjolras noncommittally. ‘Charity’ made him uncomfortable. “Which shelter?” 

“Father Pierre’s House; it’s only a few blocks away.” 

“I know it. I have a comrade who often sleeps there.” He paused. “Do you ever think about how to solve such problems?”

“Oh, of course,” she hesitated. “But I think tending to people who are suffering now is important too.”

“That’s true. One must tend to the symptoms as well as the cause.”

She smiled again, but it had a different quality; it was the benign, knowing smile of a nurse. “I suppose there’s some truth to that.”

“Only some, Cosette?”

She touched his hand, and then said gently. “I’m not sure we should refer to actual suffering that way. My father - I, I’ve always thought such language puts a distance between me and the people we’re trying to help.”

Enjolras studied her critically; he thought idly that it would have been better for Jehan or Courfeyrac to have had this meeting. Cosette, for all her professed shyness, seemed sure in her beliefs. He wanted to argue with her, and so he picked his next words carefully; Combeferre had told him off on previous occasions for abrasiveness. And Combeferre, Enjolras could confess to himself, had something of a point. 

“Have you ever thought referring to them as ‘people you’re trying to help’ rather than just ‘people’ in their own right also creates a distance? It’s rather infantilizing.”

“Perhaps,” Cosette hedged. “I wouldn’t want to demean any of the people I meet.”

“I can tell.” He attempted another smile. “But how do you feel about empowering them?”

“I probably don’t feel as strongly as you do.”

Enjolras gave a genuine laugh. “I have the rather lonely impression I’m one of the few who feels so strongly.”

“It’s a good thing,” she assured him hastily. “Please don’t think I’m mocking you. But providing warmth? Shelter? Compassion? Those are a kind of empowerment, too. Or at least, it provides some comfort to the soul.”

“Whose soul?” he said quickly, without thinking. “ _Yours_ , or theirs?”

Cosette was silent for a moment. She blinked her wide, soft eyes at him and then said, quietly, “What do _you_ mean when you say empowerment?”

He felt himself growing agitated. “Political empowerment, of course. Raising the people up. Being able to address the structural inequities which have created - which rely upon the continued production of - such wretched conditions.”

The benign, sure smile returned. “You intend to tear the system down, then.” 

“Someday, yes.” He had half-risen from his seat, and he sat back now. “But for the time being, I must content with serving in auxiliary role.” He twisted his mouth into a crooked half-smile and reached into his bag to pull out a flyer. “The vanguard is dead, after all. But if you are interested in homelessness, there is a housing ordinance being discussed next week by the city council. One of Les Amis partner organizations intends on turning people out for the meeting to ensure its passage.” He softened his smile as he handed her the flyer. “Nothing illegal; citizens are allowed inside so long as we’re quiet. We just intend to show a unified front. The worse you’ll be asked to do is wear a very garish shirt with a slogan on it.”

Cosette studied the flyer intently. “I would like to, but I’ll have to ask my father for permission.” She fidgeted, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s protective.”

“I understand,” said Enjolras, though he did not. “This was a very interesting chat.”

“It was.” She stood up. She really was quite pretty, Enjolras thought in an abstract way. He would no doubt never hear the end of her from Marius. “I really enjoyed talking to you Enjolras.” 

***

Enjolras remained in the Musain after Cosette. He had another such meeting in a half-hour. 

Thirty-five minutes later, Grantaire sat down across from him. Enjolras raised his eyebrows at him from over his book. He was reading Fanon, whom he quite enjoyed. 

“I have a meeting right now,” he said. 

“Oh yes. You look very busy.” Grantaire smirked. “One of your consciousness-raising meetings, is it? With, what was the name, Rudolfo something?” 

Enjolras paused, and then he shut his book with a sneer. “You wrote down a fake name. Grantaire, you _ass_.”

Grantaire laughed. “In my defense, I wrote down three, _and_ I made the e-mail addresses for them. This wasn’t exclusively a ploy for your delightful company.” His whole face shone with amusement. “I had a lovely chat with Courfeyrac yesterday. We’re thinking of trying to brew our own beer.” He leaned across the table, his hands extending into Enjolras’s space. “And good afternoon to you too Apollo.” 

Enjolras scowled. “That’s a terrible nickname.” 

“Really?” said Grantaire, grinning brightly. His eyes were very blue, and they were as intently focused on Enjolras as ever. Enjolras twitched his shoulders. It was moments like this he was reminded _why_ he and Grantaire weren’t friends. Grantaire unsettled him, and he took nothing seriously. “I think it fits perfectly.” 

Enjolras raised his eyebrows higher and shoved his notebook back into his bag. The metal spiral caught against the zipper and jammed. He clenched his jaw. 

“God of music and medicine? _Really_?” 

Grantaire laughed. It was a warm, rich laugh, but with a mocking note under it, as if Grantaire were too ironic to even laugh genuinely. “So what god would you prefer, Monsieur? Are you really warlike enough to be Ares?” 

Enjolras managed to unjam the spiral. “I’ve always been partial to Athena.”

“Of course,” said Grantaire smoothly. He leaned back in his chair, one arm lazily hooked over the back of it. The bright silver of his flask peeked out from his jacket pocket. “You would pick one of the virgin goddesses.”

Enjolras zipped his bag shut. “Charming as ever Grantaire,” he snapped, standing up. “I do so appreciate you wasting my time.” 

Grantaire grabbed his sleeve. “Maybe I referenced Apollo because he’s a radiant god of truth.” 

The look he gave Enjolras was serene, guileless. 

Enjolras snorted, his mouth curling in disdain. “You don’t believe in truth Grantaire. You don’t believe in anything.”

Grantaire smiled blandly and let go of Enjolras’s sleeve. “How you wound me,” he said easily. He gestured at the seat Enjolras had just left. “But don’t flounce out on my account. Stay and drink with me.”

“It’s a bit early for _that_ ,” said Enjolras snidely, but, after a moment’s hesitation, he sat.

Grantaire snorted. “I was referring to coffee. I took the liberty of ordering you some.”

Enjolras made a face. “At least you think some liberties are worth taking.”

“Are we doing puns? I do like puns.” Grantaire leaned across the table again. When he was sober, or at least mostly sober, he was constantly in motion. “But I have something to show you, Enjolras.” 

“And what is that?”

Grantaire tugged down on his own lower lip to show off the inside of it. Tattooed there was the outline of France, dark and unmistakable. Enjolras stared at it, uncomprehending. 

Grantaire let go of his lip and sat back, wiping his hand on his jeans. “I got another tattoo,” he said proudly. “I thought you would appreciate it.”

Enjolras shook his head. “You’re absurd. Why would you get that?”

He knew Grantaire had other tattoos: on his left forearm was the word “terreur” in black ink, and over his shoulders curled a pair of skeletal hands he had drawn himself. He had seen the skeleton hands only once, last June at the end of term when Courfeyrac had convinced them all to go for a swim. Enjolras had remained at the water’s edge, but Grantaire, along with most of the others, had stripped down to his boxers before diving in. 

The memory arose vividly in his mind – the dusky light of late evening, the curve of Grantaire’s shoulder, and the mocking, inquiring smile he had given in response to Enjolras’s gaze. Enjolras pushed the memory away. 

Grantaire’s grin broadened. “I missed you over the summer, of course. It was to remind me of you.”

Enjolras said nothing. He thumbed at the cover of his book and looked out the window, into the street. A couple strolled by arm-in-arm; it was getting close to evening, and soon all the lights of the city would be on. 

“R?” called the barista. “Medium black and a vanilla latte.”

Grantaire stood up, saving Enjolras from having to respond. He smiled crookedly and gave a little bow. “One moment,” he said and went to pick up the coffee. 

By the time he returned, Enjolras had returned to reading his book; reading was easier work than trying to hold a sensible conversation with Grantaire.

Grantaire placed the black coffee by his elbow with a small hum and then sat back down and pulled out a sketchbook. Enjolras glanced up occasionally to see what he was working on, but Grantaire was hunched over protectively, and eventually, he gave up on the task. They sat in calm silence, not friendly, but at least accepting of the other’s presence. 

Outside, it started to rain, and the street-lights flickered on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I have always wanted to write a college AU, but my own undergrad experience has been much more the realm of going to rallies and sitting in crappy student apartments discussing socialism and drinking microbrews. Which are generally not the go-to tropes for college AUs. _But perfect for writing Les Mis fic_. 
> 
> A few quick notes: This is vaguely set in Paris. I know Paris does not have a chapter of Platypus; I also apologize for being mean to Platypus. You guys aren't that bad, and I stole a line from [here](http://platypus1917.org/about/short-history-of-the-left/) to help flesh out Enjolras's politics. (And yes, I know, of course you have to read Lacan to understand Zizek! But I'm not sure if Zizek is someone Platypodes discuss.)
> 
> (And by "vaguely set in Paris," I of course mean I'm going to call it Paris and include a ton of Chicago stuff; my main and enduring impression of Paris is being covered in bone-dust, vividly aware of being alive now! right now! and eating watermelon from a street vendor after wandering through the [Catacombs](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catacombs_of_Paris).)
> 
> All the stuff about community organizing is stuff I have experience in; my training was very much in the style of Saul Alinsky. I'm not really sure what's the MO for community organizing in France, so if anyone has info on that and would like to pass it on... Also, the O'Hare shit-in is in an actual thing that almost happened! More info [here](http://www.progress.org/2003/alinsky12.htm). 
> 
> The title is, of course, a Hegel reference. Unfortunately, I can't really offer a coherent explanation for _why_ Hegel, and why that reference. (But I mean, come on! The thesis cannot exist without and also must overcome the antithesis ~~in bed~~.) I am going to stop ruining philosophy now and admit that my main reaction when confronted with philosophy is to smile fondly and think, I don't understand this and I don't think it has any bearing on my life. 
> 
> Finally: Enjolras's politics are not my politics. I am very much a leftist, and to a certain extent, exorcising my own demons w.r.t to campus activism. But I think he's more of a radical than I am, and has also more carefully and thoroughly constructed and investigated his own beliefs. 
> 
> Wow those are some long author notes! Next part will have a Halloween party! And poetry! Thanks for reading.


	2. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long to get up! Midterms, social life, etc. Thank you so much to everyone who has read, kudos'd, and commented. I'm really happy people are enjoying this.
> 
> ETA: [perplexingly](perplexingly.tumblr.com) over at tumblr made some incredibly lovely art for this chapter. Go [check it out ](http://perplexingly.tumblr.com/post/43632629772/from-the-world-historical-by-coyotesuspect-and), because it is amazing. I can't even look at it too long without wanting to cry over the fact someone was inspired to make something so nice because of something I wrote.

**October**

“I’m throwing a party,” said Eponine, dropping into the seat across from Enjolras.

Enjolras was holding court, as Combeferre teasingly called it, and which Enjolras refused to respond to. After extensive criticism that he was “basically impossible to contact since you never respond to texts,” Enjolras had decided to most of his schoolwork at Cafe Musain. During the daylight hours, if he wasn’t in class or doing the work of the Left, he could be found here, laptop open and papers spread on a table in the back. 

“Are you now?” he responded finally.

“Yes,” said Eponine, spreading her hand over the book Enjolras was reading. He glanced up at her in mild annoyance. “A Halloween party. The weekend before Halloween.” 

“All right,” said Enjolras. He put his book down. “That’s nice?”

Eponine smiled at him. Enjolras wasn’t quite sure how they were friends. She showed up to Les Amis events occasionally, but she certainly wasn’t an active member, and he’d always had the impression she was there mainly because of Marius. If anything, he knew her best by virtue of her being Grantaire’s roommate. 

“It is. It’s going to be great. We’re doing it totally American. You should come.” 

“I don’t really-”

“Please,” said Eponine, cutting him off quickly. “I’m inviting all of yours and Grantaire’s little activist friends. And I _know_ you don’t have anything going on that night; I checked with Grantaire and he knows your schedule.”

Enjolras frowned. “How does Grantaire-”

Eponine snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She stood up and patted Enjolras’s shoulder. “Anyway, that’s it. My apartment. Next Saturday. At nine. I’d invite you on facebook if I thought you would notice.”

Eponine left before Enjolras could attempt to respond, and he watched her go in bemusement. He wasn’t one for parties, normally, but he supposed there were worse ways he could spend his time. 

***

Enjolras washed the paint off his arms. For a moment, the colors were distinct, red and gray and black, and then they swirled together into a muddy dark that stained the sink. As it turned out, he had, actually, had something the day of the party. There had been a march against the deportation of Roma that afternoon. It had been the organizers’, all Roma youth, idea to paint the marchers like zombies, in keeping with the season. It had been a clever idea, Enjolras thought, and had drawn a good deal of media attention. The pictures would be striking. 

Bahorel, who had accompanied Enjolras to the march, knocked on the bathroom door. “Enjolras,” he called through it. “I’m leaving for Eponine’s party. Are you coming?” 

“Party?” And then he remembered. “Oh! Yes! I’ll go with you.” 

He scrubbed the last of the paint off his arms and realized, as he watched it drain away, that now he had no costume at all.

***

Bahorel wanted to stop by his apartment along the way for dinner and to put on his real costume, which was, as near as Enjolras could make it, the personified form of a peacock. He wore a long green cape festooned with peacock feathers and gold sequins, and a green paper mask similarly decorated with craft feathers and more sequins.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to find something for you to wear!” shouted Bahorel as he wandered in and out of his bedroom searching for the right pair of boots; they were, of course, a different pair of boots from the ones he’d worn to the march. 

“I’m quite all right,” Enjolras assured him, smiling. He had decided to be more amused than irritated at Bahorel’s tardiness; at least Bahorel had remembered there was a party. 

“Are you sure?” asked Bahorel. He paused in front of Enjolras, holding his boots.

“Very,” said Enjolras. “Now hurry. We’re already going to be late.” 

Enjolras was right, they were late, though not by as much as he had feared. The door to Eponine’s apartment building had been left wedged open by a brick. Grantaire and Eponine lived in the blurry overlap between the starter apartments most students lived in and the low-income housing a mile out from campus proper. The building was old and not well-renovated, with a crumbling angel façade and moaning stairs that they took to the third floor, from which light and music was already spilling. 

The door into the apartment was also cracked open, and he and Bahorel slipped inside. Eponine and Cosette were just beyond the door, and Cosette’s arm was wrapped around Eponine’s shoulder. She laughed brightly.

“Eponine! We have the same costume!” 

Eponine caught Enjolras’s eye and widened her own eyes meaningfully. Enjolras waved in response. She and Cosette were dressed similarly, in sparkly fairy wings and short, colorful dresses. By Eponine’s discomfort, he assumed it hadn’t been purposeful.

“Yes,” gritted out Eponine. “What a coincidence.” 

“Take our picture!” ordered Cosette playfully. She pulled a camera out of her purse and handed it over; Bahorel took it and smiled charmingly. 

“You both look so lovely!” said Bahorel, raising the camera. His voice had taken on the overblown quality it always did when he talked to women. “No doubt here to cast spells on delight on us all.” 

Enjolras snorted; Cosette giggled.

“Just take the picture,” snapped Eponine. Her face had assumed a fixed, manic quality. 

Enjolras shook his head and left Bahorel to his harmless flirting. He slipped past the three of them and into the living room. There were already a dozen people scattered around. It was a fairly spacious apartment, only cheap because of its location and shabby quality. 

A tall, sheet-covered blocked his path. 

“R,” said the figure in Marius’s voice. “Are you really going to wear that the entire time?” 

Grantaire’s voice responded fondly. “Marius, you’re one to talk. You have a sheet over your head.” 

Enjolras ducked around Marius, and there was Grantaire, dressed as France. 

Grantaire had cut out a large piece of cardboard into the shape of France and then painted the tricolor on it in three broad stripes. Where Paris was, he had stuck a small, sparkling gold star sticker. He had punched holes through Normandy and Champagne and looped a black thong through them. The entire contraption hung around his neck. 

He was also wearing a beret, and holding a bottle of wine. Though Enjolras was fairly certain the wine was a normal accessory for Grantaire, and not part of the costume. 

Grantaire’s whole face brightened as he spotted Enjolras. 

“Enjolras!” he called. “And what are you dressed as?” 

“I’m dressed as myself,” responded Enjolras dryly. He stepped around Marius. “Are you _France_?”

Grantaire laughed warmly. “A sight most terrifying indeed.” He winked at Enjolras lasciviously. “And yes. I thought you would appreciate it.” 

“You look ridiculous,” said Enjolras; a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

Grantaire waved his bottle at him in a grand gesture. He had clearly gotten an early start on the drinking. “That’s the spirit of the holiday! Would you like a drink?”

“Water,” said Enjolras. “But I know where the kitchen is.” 

He moved towards the kitchen, and Grantaire followed him. Black and orange crepe and cobwebs were hung about the apartment, and carved pumpkins with ever more gruesome faces were tucked in every corner. Eponine and Grantaire had shoved a table against the far wall of the living room, and it was piled with sweets. Somewhere, someone had hidden a pair of speakers, and an English voice was howling like a wolf. 

In the kitchen, Feuilly, Combeferre, and Lesgle were engaged in dynamic conversation. 

Feuilly, dressed in a martial jacket, waved a papier-mâché gun in the air, nearly knocking off Combeferre’s wizard hat.  
“-consider Foucault to be right that it is _confession_ which creates the individual because it causes one to become a self-perceiving thing, then mustn’t we propose that Augustine was the first individual? It is the Church’s insistence upon guilt and self-recrimination-”

“You’re mistaken!” interrupted Combeferre excitedly. His glasses were in danger of slipping off and he pushed them up his nose hastily. “It’s capitalism, not Catholicism! The ‘individual’ did not exist prior to the 19th century. It’s the specialization of labor brought about by the advent of the industrial revolution. That is the cause of society’s atomization!” 

Lesgle frowned. He was wearing a toga over his usual attire. “So what of human rights then, Combeferre? Are we to consider them false, if the individual human is merely a pretense?”

“What _of_ human rights?” broke in Enjolras, smiling. The three turned to him with smiles of their own. “They are necessary, yes, but only in-so-much as capitalism has forced us into this atomization, and they are largely used by western states as a pretense for invasion. What does France care for human rights when it deports thousands and refuses to offer education to Roma children? And it’s not just that human rights as practiced are used to shore up the power of privileged states, but also privileged classes within that state. Why, otherwise, the stress on _property_? Who considers housing a human right other than the homeless?” 

“Already sermonizing,” laughed Grantaire. He leaned against the counter and smiled crookedly. “You all speak so poorly of the individual.”

“Because, R, liberalism’s relentless insistence upon the individual reinforces the atomization of society and alienation of people from their communities, their labor, and their actual selves!” Combeferre’s eyes shone fiercely, and Enjolras smiled more widely; Combeferre had been much more retiring when they had first met. 

“Perhaps,” said Grantaire. He sipped his drink. “As for me, I would attribute the first individual to the troubadours of the 14th century.” 

“Ah, R, you sound like Jehan!” laughed Lesgle.

Grantaire shrugged and looked at Enjolras. His beret was perched perilously atop his curls. “There are worse people to sound like,” he said dismissively. “But hear me out. What was love before the courtly love of the troubadours? It was either, as our fearless leader here would call it, a business transaction, or it was just Eros, physical love. It was not _personal_ love.” 

“And what does love have to do with the individual?” asked Lesgle. 

Enjolras frowned a bit. Grantaire’s eyes had not left his face. Grantaire winked, and Enjolras looked away. There was a jack-o-lantern above the kitchen sink, carved with a goblin’s face.

“Amor, of course,” said Grantaire. “As I said, the troubadours’ love was a personal love. They loved who they could not have, so it wasn’t, it couldn’t be physical love. With no hope of consummation, the troubadours’ loved the person. So that’s the first individual, the beloved, as seen through the eyes of the sufferer.” 

Enjolras looked back at Grantaire; Grantaire looked back fixedly. Sometimes, times like these, when Enjolras looked at Grantaire, he thought he could see a question there. But he had no idea what question Grantaire was asking. 

“Courtly love,” scoffed Enjolras; he cast about for his thoughts. “It was not love, Grantaire. It was merely the re-articulation of class structures, via the reinforcement of the desirability and inaccessibility of the elite class’s women. Love had nothing to do with it.”

Grantaire laughed, and the question in his face disappeared. “Poor Enjolras,” he teased. “What do you know about love? You only love France.” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes and reached for the cupboard next to Grantaire where the cups were kept. Grantaire continued talking as Enjolras filled his glass with water. 

“He is the last nationalist on the left, our Enjolras. He is practically endangered species. Tell me, Enjolras, how do you reconcile the violence of the state with your love of the state?”

“Because France is more than just a racist president and a violent past,” responded Enjolras automatically. “It is its deals, and it is its future.” He smirked at Grantaire, and added mildly. “It helps that France has rather fetching eyes, though.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, and this his glass. His mouth was red and wet. “To the future, then.” 

“Speaking of racist presidents,” said Combeferre, diverting Enjolras’s attention from Grantaire. “How did the march go?”

Enjolras drank his water and told them. And after a moment of continuing to watch Enjolras, Grantaire wandered off. 

***

The kitchen became an untenable position as more late arrivals showed up and made their way to the refrigerator for drinks. Enjolras caught sight of Montparnasse’s dark hair as he left the kitchen and scowled. They’d all thought Eponine had broken up with him. 

Back in the living room, Cosette’s fairy wings were abandoned on the floor. And from beneath Marius’s bedsheet emerged two pairs of legs and a stream of giggling. Eponine stood by the table, scowling. Enjolras flashed her a sympathetic look; even he was not as oblivious as Marius in that regard. 

He bumped into Jehan as he made his way through the partiers. Jehan’s eyes were rimmed with black, which gave him the appearance of a small, nocturnal creature, and pinned to his chest were five or six long gray feathers. Other than that, he was dressed normally. 

“And what are you?” asked Enjolras curiously, speaking loudly so Jehan could hear him over the din.

Jehan gestured to his chest. “I’m the thing with feathers!” He beamed. 

“Well I can see that...”

“Hope!” shouted Grantaire suddenly, from behind Enjolras. He flung his arm around Enjolras’s shoulders and leaned into him. “Is the thing with feathers!” He hummed to himself, and Enjolras winced. Grantaire’s breath was pungent with alcohol. “That perches in the soul, and sings the tune, without the words, and never stops at all.” 

Jehan looked delighted. “Yes! Exactly! R, you are a man of hidden depths.”

Grantaire attempted to bow, but didn’t let go of Enjolras, and so ended up just forcing Enjolras’s head down awkwardly. Grantaire still had France strung around his neck, and Brittany dug in beneath Enjolras’s rib-cage. 

“So this is a poetry thing,” said Enjolras, annoyed. 

Grantaire blew into his ear. “Oui, mon ami. Dickinson. She’s American. Well, was. She, like the rest of us will be someday, is dead.” 

Enjolras ignored him. He knew from past experience that attempting to shove Grantaire off would just make him cling harder.

“That doesn’t explain the eyeliner.”

Jehan gave an expressive shrug. “It was Eponine’s idea. I think it looks rather dramatic.” He widened his eyes for effect, furthering the impression of a small, night-living animal. A bush-baby, maybe, thought Enjolras. 

“How’d you like to consummate your love of France?” interrupted Grantaire, into Enjolras’s ear.

Jehan turned bright red; Enjolras tried to elbow Grantaire, but only succeeded in crushing France a bit.

“Off!” he ordered. 

Grantaire laughed loudly and let go of Enjolras. He staggered a bit. 

Enjolras turned back to Jehan, ignoring Grantaire pointedly. “And how are you?” 

Jehan fluttered his hands. “Well! I’ve submitted a poem for publication, and midterms are done. It’s a good night Enjolras! And yourself?” 

“Well enough,” said Enjolras. He glanced over his shoulder distractedly. Grantaire had moved on to other prey and had plastered himself as best he could against a friend of Eponine’s. He scowled a bit.

Then, out on the fire escape, Courfeyrac began to sing. 

“ _Is there aught we hold in common with the greedy parasite, who would lash us into serfdom and would crush us with his might_?”

After a moment, Marius joined in, his own voice wobbly. Enjolras and Jehan laughed, startled expressions mirroring each other, but then, simultaneously, joined in as well. Then came the voices of other Amis, from where they were scattered around the apartment. 

“ _Is there anything left to us but to organize and fight?”_

Eponine rolled her eyes and Cosette laughed delightedly; those guests who were not members of Les Amis looked confused. 

Solidarity Forever became the Red Flag, and Enjolras joined Courfeyrac and Marius on the fire escape. They were leaning over the railing, and Bahorel was seated at the top of the stairs; all of them were flushed with alcohol and happiness. Enjolras smiled as he took his place by Courfeyrac and faced out into the night.

“ _The people’s flag is deepest red! It’s shrouded oft our martyred dead!_ ” 

He felt a sudden warmth to his side and glanced over. Grantaire was next to him. He had lost France and was wearing Cosette’s fairy wings now. He sang, too. 

Grantaire’s expression was soft and his eyes were lidded. He seemed less manic than he had from just moments ago, and he leaned against Enjolras heavily. Enjolras allowed it, enjoying the additional warmth. It was a cool evening, though not yet a cold one. 

They sang loudly, for a long time, and the alleyway beneath them rang with their voices. 

***

At two, the first guests began to trickle out. Joly and Bahorel bowed out first, Joly pleading an oncoming cold and Bahorel arm in arm with a pretty girl. Then Combeferre said good-bye, his wizard’s hat left atop an extinguished pumpkin. He was soon followed by several of Eponine’s friends Enjolras didn’t know. Grantaire passed out at three, under the table, Cosette’s wings crumpled beneath him. And that, after the laughter had subsided, seemed to be the cue for most everyone else. 

Enjolras stayed behind, collecting bottles to rinse out and set aside for recycling. France was propped up forlornly against the wall of the hallway, and he eyed it curiously. 

“What do you think he’ll do with that?” he asked Eponine, after he’d finished washing the last bottle.

As if in response, Grantaire groaned and rolled over in his sleep. Eponine ducked under the table and bent over him, a pillow in her hands. 

“Forget about it, no doubt,” said Eponine. She lifted Grantaire’s head and placed it on the pillow. “And then I’ll have to throw it out.” 

“Is he all right?” asked Cosette suddenly. She, like Enjolras, had stayed behind to help clean up.

Eponine glared at her and stood up. “Yes, he’ll be fine. He always is.”

“Oh,” said Cosette, brow furrowed delicately. “Does this happen often?”

Eponine shrugged, still clearly tense. “Often enough. Don’t you have _someone else_ to worry about?” She cocked her head in the direction of the couch. Marius and Courfeyrac were both passed out on it. Courfeyrac was sprawled against the arm and Marius had his head in Courfeyrac’s lap. His nose was pressed into Courfeyrac’s thigh, and Marius’s sheet was draped over the both of them. 

“Only,” said Enjolras, interjecting. “I’d be happy to take it.”

Eponine gave him a strange look. “If you want. He won’t mind.” 

Cosette laughed as she tried to wake Marius up. “He won’t get up!” She threw her hands up. “They’ll have to take care of each other.” 

“Tell him thank you,” said Enjolras. He picked France up. But Eponine ignored him. She was frowning at Cosette, arms were crossed over her chest.

“Well it’s late,” she said to Cosette. “Someone should walk you home.” She turned her head. “Enjolras.”

Enjolras paused, and then gave a stiff bow. “I’d be honored.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” said Cosette, abandoning Marius to fetch her coat from the hall closet. “I hope I’m not out of the way. I only need to get to the Metro stop.” 

Enjolras shrugged. “It’s no trouble, really.” He often liked walking on nights like this. It was a good way to think. 

Eponine kissed him on the cheek and then opened the door for them, clearly ushering them out. 

“Thanks for coming,” she said tiredly, not looking at either of them, but at the couch where Marius and Courfeyrac slept in peaceful oblivion. 

“Thank you for hosting!” Cosette was still bubbly, despite the late hour. Enjolras nodded and left; Cosette trailed after him. 

They walked in silence. They weren’t the only party ending. Other students filtered out into the dark Parisian streets, their voices bright with laughter. 

“I don’t think she likes me,” said Cosette eventually, a little mournfully. 

Enjolras looked at her. “Who?” 

“Eponine!” said Cosette. 

“Oh.” Enjolras paused. “Well she is…” He trailed off. 

“Infatuated with Marius.”

“Infatuated is a good word,” said Enjolras neutrally. This was not comfortable territory for him, and he spotted the familiar Metro sign with a surge of relief. 

Cosette sighed. “Marius is oblivious, of course.”

“Mm,” said Enjolras. He switched France to under his arm; it was light, but awkward to hold. “At least he doesn’t mean badly.” He paused with Cosette beneath a streetlamp as she dug a Metro token out of her purse. 

“I think that might even be worse.” She paused. “I used to think hope was always a good thing, but sometimes, maybe it’s just paralyzing.” She frowned at Enjolras as she spoke, and it occurred to him dimly that she was talking about someone more than just Eponine. 

Enjolras smiled faintly. “I don’t think I’m the right person to have this conversation with, Cosette.” He gestured to France and added dryly. “As Grantaire has often noted, my love is doomed to be unrequited, but I wouldn’t say I’m paralyzed because of it.”

Cosette laughed. “Perhaps not,” she said, and she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, as Eponine had when he left. “Thank you for walking me.”

“Do you need me to wait for the train with you?” 

Cosette shook her bright head and descended into the mouth of Metro. “Happy Halloween Enjolras,” she called behind her. 

Enjolras waved good-bye, and remained at the head of the stairs for a few minutes longer, just in case. He left, finally, when he heard the train arrive.

He sang quietly to himself as he walked, France tucked beneath his arm. Jehan had been right; it was a good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't remember which bit of Foucault Feuilly is drawing on, but I do know it doesn't explicitly address Augustine (though people often bring up Augustine in response because, you know, _confessions_ ). Grantaire is basically articulating a point Joseph Campbell made in The Power of Myth, relevant parts [here](http://chivalrytoday.com/joseph-campbell-chivalry/) (that site looks like it has questionable politics, so be leery!). Campbell isn't specifically addressing the individual, but I feel like it's a fair extension. 
> 
> Sidenote: Power of Myth is the reason I decided to study religion, so of course I got to college and found that no one takes Campbell seriously in my department, as such I'm always surprised when friends from other colleges have to read him; in any case, I do actually recommend PoM if you're interested in reading two intelligent men address a wide variety of subjects.
> 
> Second, more relevant sidenote: Has anyone ever done an analysis of Grantaire and Enjolras's relationship from the viewpoint of courtly love? I feel like that would be interesting!
> 
> As for the conversation re: the individual itself: as a freshman, I asked several of my activist friends who were also grad students for advice on a "Philosophy and Human Rights" paper, and one of them kept insisting I should question the whole human rights framework as the individual is a 19th century byproduct of capitalism and industrialization, which is a point he reiterated at several parties. It's a line of critique made often by feminist and post-colonial thinkers.
> 
> Solidarity Forever and the Red Flag are both from the IWW's Little Red Songbook, and great songs. Fun fact: I was at a protest once singing Solidarity Forever and the guitarist turned to me and said, "Wow you are _really_ tone deaf." Which is sadly true. 
> 
> Also, I don't know if Francois Hollande really is a racist, but his government has continued the previous government's policy of [deporting tons of Roma](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Roma_expulsion), to the extent [the EU and UN](http://www.thelocal.fr/page/view/french-socialists-accelerate-roma-gypsy-evictions#.USFRSKWTiAY) have both been like, "Guys, come on. Guys, really?"
> 
> Finally: Jehan's costume is something I've always wanted to do, but have forgotten every year. :,( And Feuilly is dressed as [Tadeusz Kosciuzko](http://www.harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=34).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Thank you again for reading. Next time: a riot!


	3. November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So February has been a really weird month and every time I poke my head up it seems like five or six days have passed _without me realizing_ , which, honestly, is a bit frightening and is also my excuse for why I took so long with this update. I know the pain of waiting for a fic to update, and it is a terrible pain. I will try to be swifter in the future. 
> 
> And thank you, again, to everyone who has read, kudos'd, commented, bookmarked, and/or said nice things on tumblr. If you allow a moment of sentimentality: I've been having a pretty hard time of it lately, and the fact this has been so well-received is a real bright spot in my life right now. <3 
> 
> In more important news: this part contains some fictionalization of recent historical events, so just bear with me, yeah?

November

A rock hit him in the face.

It struck him just above the eye, and hard enough that he staggered back, his vision graying for a second. 

Combeferre grabbed his elbow and steadied him. “Are you all right?” he yelled; there was a note of panic in his voice. 

Enjolras pulled away. “Yes,” he said quickly. He touched his face where the rock had struck, and his fingers came away bloody. “It’s just a scratch.” 

Combeferre eyes widened comically. “Just a - Jesus - _Enjolras_!” He grabbed Enjolras’s arm again. “We should get the others and get out. It’s getting wild.”

“It’s the police.” Enjolras told him. “ _They’re_ the ones who’ve started attacking people!” 

The atmosphere was growing frenetic. What had started as a peaceful march commemorating the seventh anniversary of the unrest of 2005 had splintered into chaos when the marchers hit a police barricade, set up despite the march’s permit. Up ahead, the first pained and angry yells were beginning. 

The other three who had come with Enjolras and Combeferre had been swept away in the ensuing mass of movement, and protestors on all sides were crashing towards the barricade. It was no longer a human energy, but like that of a riptide. Inexorably, Enjolras felt himself being pulled forward

The unrest of 2005 had been a consciousness raising event for Enjolras, who had been a young teen at the time. He remembered it mainly as a constant presence on the television, in the worried tones of his parents, and the way he was suddenly not allowed out of sight of adult figures as if they were worried he would wander off – or, more likely – purposefully join the rioting.

It had been seven years, and while there had been some justice for the youths whose deaths had precipitated the riots and protests, there had been no justice for the communities they had been a part of. The _banlieues_ were still suffocating, and the rest of France still ignored their suffering. It was apartheid.

Enjolras pushed towards the barricade. 

Combeferre followed, cursing. 

“This was a peaceful protest!” he yelled at a police officer when he finally broke through the crowd. “You’re instigating the violence! You are!” 

His face was stinging, and the blood was getting into his eye. He wiped it away impatiently. The officer’s impassive, shielded face didn’t move, and he held his truncheon lightly in his hand. 

Someone jostled into him hard, and Enjolras grabbed the barricade. People were yelling more loudly. Rocks were being thrown, and Enjolras wished them better aim than the one that had struck him. 

The crowd howled loudly and shoved forward; Enjolras clung to the barricade. A woman was screaming. It was impossible to see what was going on. The crowd began to chant – _fascist, fuck the police, cowards_. Enjolras joined in; he felt electric.

“Enjolras!” insisted Combeferre, grabbing at his jacket. “We need to get out of here!”

Enjolras ignored him. The police were beginning to draw closer together, forming a solid line of armored flesh. It would be the work of a second to knock the barricade down.

Someone grabbed him and pulled him away from the barricade, hard. 

“Are you _bleeding_!?” 

“R!” said Combeferre. “We need to get out of here!” 

Grantaire kept his hands gripped tightly in Enjolras’s jacket. “What happened to you?” he demanded.

Enjolras shrugged angrily; they were being shoved back from the barricade as others moved forward. 

“I was hit by a rock,” he said clipped; he struggled to push back towards his spot. “Accidentally.” 

Grantaire’s jaw tightened. There was a wild, dark emotion in his eyes. “We’re going,” he said decisively. 

“You and Combeferre can go. I’m staying.” 

Someone knocked into him then, and he pitched forward, off balance and with blood in his eyes again. 

Grantaire grabbed him and kept him on his feet. “Combeferre,” yelled Grantaire. “Assistance please.”

Combeferre hesitated, and then grabbed Enjolras’s arm. He and Grantaire began shoving against the crowd, dragging Enjolras with them. 

Enjolras snarled, indignant, and fought against them, but the blood was still in his eyes, and he stumbled. 

The crowd was spread out along the barricade and not very thick; it took them only a moment to break through it. 

“Let me _go_!” ordered Enjolras.

“Sorry,” muttered Combeferre. He at least sounded apologetic. Grantaire remained unusually silent on Enjolras’s other side.

They ducked into a narrow side street, near where Courfeyrac had parked his car. There was no Metro service to this part of the suburbs. Enjolras could hear the yelling behind them. He wanted to go back. 

“There are the others!” shouted Combeferre excitedly.

“Oh good!” shouted Joly back, relief obvious in his voice. “We were getting worried!”

And then Courfeyrac’s voice: “What the hell happened to Enjolras?” 

“It was just a rock. I’m _fine_ ,” insisted Enjolras. Combeferre let go of him, but Grantaire did not until they reached the car. 

He couldn’t see at all, and was, though he would never admit it, beginning to feel dizzy. He pressed the heel of his palm to the cut. 

“Med student!” snapped Grantaire at Joly. He shoved Enjolras forward a bit. “Do something!” 

“I’m fine,” snarled Enjolras again. He jerked away from Grantaire and leaned against the car, then wiped furiously at his eyes with his free hand. 

Joly squawked. “They haven’t actually taught us how to patch anyone up! I can only answer questions about o-chem!” 

Grantaire growled in frustration and snapped his attention back to Enjolras, who, finally, could see. His hands were smeared red. 

“You’re going to the hospital,” said Grantaire firmly.

“You probably should,” muttered Courfeyrac.

Enjolras snorted. “It’s a shallow cut. Shallow facial lacerations always bleed like this.”

“Well,” said Joly nervously. “That _is_ true.”

“ _Shut up_!” roared Grantaire, face turning purplish. It wasn’t clear who he was yelling at, and a stunned silence followed. Enjolras had never seen Grantaire act seriously, and it was unnerving to see it now. 

He collected himself and then looked at Grantaire calmly. “Courfeyrac can drop Combeferre and me off on the way back.” 

“Me too -”

“No,” said Enjolras swiftly. He felt an icy coldness in him. “You’re not coming with me.” He paused, something hard an implacable settling in his chest. Grantaire had been out of line. “You’re not to attend our meetings anymore. _I_ don’t want to see you around anymore.” He sneered. “Why would you even come to this if you were going to run away at the first sign of trouble? You’re a coward, and you don’t believe in this, and we don’t need you. What good are you even for?”

Joly turned pale and looked at the ground; Combeferre’s eyes widened. One of his lenses had been cracked, Enjolras realized dimly. Courfeyrac touched Enjolras’s elbow, and said quietly into his ear, “Steady now.” 

Enjolras shook him off and kept his glare directly on Grantaire, who stared back at him, eyes shuttered-dark and silent. Distantly, Enjolras heard sirens begin to wail, and a cold wind picked up in the street, sending a trash and leaves scuttling. 

Finally, Grantaire licked his lips and said, “But you’re going to the hospital?” 

Enjolras inclined his head. 

Grantaire shrugged; he looked suddenly bored. “Then it doesn’t matter to me if I miss out on your fucking meetings.” He raised a lazy eyebrow and opened the car door. “I mean, you’ve done so much saving the world today, what with putting your face directly in front of that rock.”

It was only Courfeyrac’s suddenly tight grip on his elbow that kept Enjolras from lunging forward.

***

The ride back into the city was tense. Enjolras sat in the back with Combeferre and Joly, with Joly’s scarf pressed to his head to quell the bleeding. Grantaire sat in the passenger’s seat, but kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, on Enjolras’s reflection in it. 

Enjolras’s stomach felt hot, tight. He was still angry, and he avoided meeting Grantaire’s gaze. 

The car remained silent as Courfeyrac pulled up to the curb near the hospital, and Enjolras and Combeferre stepped out. 

“Let us know how it goes!” called Joly, finally, as he closed the car door after them. 

Enjolras waved a hand dismissively and Combeferre nodded. The others drove off. 

“I’m not saying you were cruel,” said Combeferre carefully, guiding Enjolras into the hospital. He looked tired. “But R was just concerned. You _are_ bleeding. Besides, I helped him, and you’re not mad at me. None of us wanted to stay there.”

“I am irritated with you,” said Enjolras stiffly. He felt a bit light-headed. “But I understand why you were concerned.” 

“And not R?” said Combeferre, incredulously. 

Enjolras shrugged. “I don’t understand why Grantaire does anything. And I don’t particularly want to.”

Combeferre frowned at him. “If you say so, Enjolras.” His voice was carefully neutral. 

Enjolras made a face, and he changed the subject. He didn’t like to think about Grantaire too much, and it was clear to him that Grantaire had not been bothered by Enjolras’s outburst. 

“We should have stayed. I probably only need a few stitches, if that.” 

Combeferre sighed as the hospital doors slid open. “Why? It was getting violent. And you may not have been arrested, but,” he smiled humorlessly, “some of us are a little browner than you.” 

Enjolras paused; Combeferre’s mother was Iranian. Enjolras had clearly been an outsider and an ally at the march, but, in Clichy-sous-Bois, Combeferre had blended in more. 

“I wouldn’t have let you get arrested,” he said finally.

Combeferre laughed. “You have a head wound, so I’m not going to hold your ridiculousness against you.”

Enjolras huffed indignantly, but he let the subject drop. He still felt like a coward though; not everyone had the privilege of being able to run away. 

***

In the end, Enjolras was right. He needed only a few stitches.

Combeferre looked half-asleep when Enjolras emerged back into the hallway, and he startled to his feet when Enjolras touched his shoulder. 

“Are you all right then?” he asked, blinking sleepily. 

Enjolras nodded. Even he felt drained. There was a bandage laid over the stitches, and it hung, annoyingly, just at the edge of his vision. 

Combeferre shoved his hands into his pockets and yawned. “You should let the others know you haven’t bled to death or gotten some terrible infection. Joly’s been blowing up my phone for an hour now.” 

“If I have my phone on me,” snorted Enjolras. He dug around in his pockets and found it, eventually, in the inside pocket of his jacket. He had a text; he opened it to read, sure it was also a panicked text from Joly. He stilled as he read it. 

“What is it?” asked Combeferre, noting the sudden change in Enjolras’s expression. 

“I have a text from Lamarque,” said Enjolras slowly. “She wants to meet.” 

***

Jeanne Lamarque was a tall woman of regal bearing and Tunisian ancestry. The first time Enjolras met her, they spent an hour discussing Fanon, and she asked him to become a student representative to the coalition of social justice organizations she led. The coalition met bi-monthly, and Enjolras saw Lamarque fairly frequently outside of that, at protests and rallies and meetings with public officials. But he rarely met with her alone. She was always busy, and something of a legend.

Lamarque’s day job was across the river and a good ways from Enjolras’s university, and he met her ar a café near her work the day after the protest. She was seated outside despite the November chill, a jacket of vaguely military cut buttoned to her throat, and eating a salad while she read the paper. 

“Madame Lamarque,” he said politely as he approached. “It’s good to see you.”

“Did you see yesterday’s Le Monde?” asked Lamarque immediately, glancing at him. She held out the paper to him, and he took it and unfolded it as he joined her at the table. Lamarque was not one for trivial formalities, and Enjolras respected that, respected her, greatly. 

There, on the front page, was a photo of him. He examined it uneasily. In the photo, he was barricade, his face lit from within in anger. Blood covered his forehead and his left cheek, giving him a savage expression, the redness of it enhanced by the red of his jacket, the only one he had, which he wore everywhere once it got cold. Around him, were the other protestors, but the camera’s focus was on him, and they seemed a faceless mob. Seeing himself always took him by surprise; he lived too much outside his own body. But this was worse than the usual sense of dislocation. 

The headline read: Six Injured and Four Arrested in Riot in Clichy-sous-Bois.

It was a protest, he thought to himself as he handed the paper back. The police were the ones who had made it a riot.

“It’s not surprising,” said Lamarque, regarding him thoughtfully, “that a handsome, young, white student such as yourself would be the center of attention at such an event. It’s rather striking, visually.” 

“Not surprising,” he said, “but not right either.” 

Lamarque nodded. “Still, there are privileges that come, well,” she smiled faintly, “with being privileged. Exposure, attention, that kind of thing.” 

Enjolras nodded, and he waited for Lamarque to make her true point. 

Lamarque sat back in her seat a bit. “Would you be willing to be arrested?” she asked.

“Arrested?”

Lamarque made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “Not right this moment, of course. But, in general. Would you be willing to be arrested as part of a protest?” 

“Ah.” Enjolras examined his hands and thought about it. He chose his words carefully. “I’d get more attention for it. The police would be less likely to harm me. It’s more likely no one would press charges. If they did, my parents could afford a better lawyer.” 

“There are a lot of _mights_ ,” said Lamarque warningly. “But yes. That is the general idea.” 

“Do you have a particular cause in mind?”

She shook her head. “No, not currently. But it is an effective form of protest, and you should have time to think it over, should it be asked of you.” 

“And what would I be getting arrested for?” 

Lamarque shrugged and stirred her drink. “Trespassing, most likely. Refusing to leave when ordered to leave. Hypothetically, a government building, a public space after it’s closed, the middle of a street during an important procession. That kind of thing.” 

Enjolras nodded and clasped his hands together. “May I think about it?” 

“Of course!” said Lamarque quickly. She pointed her fork at him. “I just wanted to raise the possibility.”

“Thank you,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll let you know.” 

Lamarque nodded at him and returned her attention to her salad. “It was good to see you Enjolras. I hope your face heals quickly.” 

Enjolras touched the bandage over his forehead; he had forgotten about it already. 

“It’s a small cut,” he told her, “but thank you,” and he left. 

***

He took the Metro back and turned Lamarque’s question over in his mind as he waited for his stop. The train was not particularly crowded at midday, and he had the back of the compartment mostly to himself. 

Enjolras thought, sometimes, that he could feel the world changing, as if a hot wind were blowing through it. It was a breathless, hopeful feeling that felt at once private and immense. There were massive student uprisings in Chile and Quebec, Occupy was a worldwide phenomenon, a tent city demanding justice had sprouted in Tel Aviv, Spain and Greece were regularly rocked by protests, and London had nearly gone up in flames the summer before. Imperialism was on its death-bed, propped up only by an American empire too dim to realize its hegemony was fading. Capitalism had been dying since 2009. The system was beginning to creak at the edges, and Enjolras wanted to be a part of it. He wanted France to be a part of it. 

Enjolras was a believer in progress, but he knew also that progress had to be forced. The twentieth-first century would be better than the last if people were willing to make it so. 

People had to be willing to make it so.

The next year would be his last year in university, and Enjolras had a choice. He could put his activism behind him, as the stuff of the youthful, idle rich, and pursue the kind of career expected of him. He could donate money, even some time, to those causes which remained close to his heart. That was what most people in his position did. They would make money, they said, and then they would save the world. 

Or he could reject that as the ashy-mouthed compromise it was, the submission of cowards who were quite comfortable with the system as it was, and intended only to give solace and never force change. 

The choice was obvious, really. He would be arrested, if the time came. It would be a small thing, to spend a night in jail for what he believed. It would be a small thing to spend a year. He had no desire for a comfortable life; a comfortable life meant an anesthetized conscience. 

Something caught his eye then and shook him from his thoughts – a plump girl, who had gotten on at the last stop, pulled a sketchbook out of her bag and began to draw. Despite the movement of the train, her hand was steady. It was something Enjolras had seen Grantaire do on a few occasions.

Maybe Combeferre was right. Maybe he had been cruel. 

Grantaire was a cipher to him. Enjolras had never been sure why he insisted on hanging around people who cared for little other than politics when he had no politics of his own. When Enjolras did think about it, he had the uneasy feeling that Grantaire hung about because of _him_ ; that there was a reason he often caught Grantaire staring. He knew Grantaire’s intent was usually to provoke him. But he couldn’t figure out why, or to what end.

It didn’t matter, he thought finally, resting his head against the train window. Grantaire would doubtless ignore Enjolras’s order to avoid him. Enjolras could apologize then, and Grantaire could return to his usual strange orbit around Les Amis, around Enjolras. 

He closed his eyes. His stitches throbbed a bit, but his cut would be fine. Everything would be patched up soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No philosophy this time! But quite a bit of social commentary, I suppose. 
> 
> The banlieus (or, _suburbs_ \- look at me, sprinkling in French like I didn't barely pass the two quarters of it I took!) are really interesting. And, by interesting, I of course mean [a terrible tragedy which is the natural result of the classism and racism inherent to Western society](http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2012/nov/03/estate-racial-hatred-poisoning-france). Essentially, many suburbs in Paris are [predominantly North African](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Social_situation_in_the_French_suburbs#French_suburbs_and_apartheid), and these communities face high rates of unemployment, class and racially motivated police violence, a lack of infrastructure, and general apathy from the French government. (Interestingly, there is something of a trend of poor, minority racial communities being pushed into a "suburban ring" around major urban areas, as opposed to I guess what we could consider the traditional model of inner-city ghettos. AKA: this is what happens when people in power decide they want to "revitalize" the inner city, but don't actually want to deal with systemic racism and classism.)
> 
> In 2005, [a few youth were electrocuted while fleeing police](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2005_civil_unrest_in_France), which was the final spark for the aforementioned tinder box of a situation, and several weeks of protests and riots followed. In 2007, there were [more protests of a similar nature](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2007_civil_unrest_in_France). (I was actually in Paris right before the unrest of 2007, and it was really strange to watch it on the news later, knowing I had just been there.) This autumn last, the case against the police who pursued the kids who were electrocuted was [re-opened](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/31/bouna-traore-zyed-benna-electrocuted-france_n_2050354.html). There wasn't, however, any kind of violence that resulted from the commemoration of the unrest/their deaths, as near as I can tell. 
> 
> I realize I keep referencing race in the fic and the author notes, and those of you are not-American may find that unusual for something ostensibly set in Europe. But I think it's a really obvious component of stuff like the concentration of poverty in the banlieus or the mass eviction of Roma. Like, I keep reading that race is generally swept under the rug in Europe, which I find really baffling. Though I suppose stuff like Francois Hollande [trying to remove race from the French constitution](http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2013/feb/12/francois-hollande-race-french-constitution) both reinforces the notion that race is an analytical category typically avoided even among the European left as well as something which really should be talked about.
> 
> I am pontificating! Moving on!
> 
> If you're curious about the other protest movements, etc, Enjolras's inner monologue at the end references, I direct you to some edifying links (aka a lot of Wikipedia plus some news articles) on: [the Tel Aviv tent city of 2011](http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/aug/04/tel-aviv-tent-city-protesters), [Quebec student protests](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2012_Quebec_student_protests), [Chilean student protests](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2011%E2%80%932012_Chilean_student_protests) (these are really interesting), [and the London riots of 2011](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2011_England_riots).
> 
> Also, yes, I did race and gender-bend Lamarque, and race-bend Combeferre. And being arrested To Make a Point is a traditional tool in any serious activist's/activist organization's arsenal. Here's an [interesting blog post](http://occupypeace.blogspot.com/2011/10/arrested-at-protest-how-to-plan-for-it.html) on what preparations one should make if they're planning on being arrested. 
> 
> On a different note: I've been really enjoying the conversations going on in the comments (as well as the ones I've been having in my tumblr ask). I may take some time to respond, but I do always intend to respond. This fandom is fantastically enthusiastic and intelligent. 
> 
> Now that I have flattered you: if anyone ever wants to come kick it and talk about e/R or what modern Amis would/should be like or Les Mis or really just anything, my [tumblr](coyyyote.tumblr.com) is always open. I'd love to talk to people, especially since I haven't read the Brick or seen any of the musicals (other than the film) and sometimes find myself floundering when it comes to keeping this fic in the spirit of the canon. Also, I don't have a beta, so if you ever see a mistake, let me know!
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'm sorry for the increasingly obnoxious length of these author notes. Next part will pretty much be all Enjolras and Grantaire.


	4. December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took longer than I thought it would. /o\ In my defense: FMM happened, and now I'm in the middle of finals. _So._
> 
> Moving on from my excuses, I want to thank [Kyra](http://thewickedwitchofthebarricade.tumblr.com/) for betaing and particularly for kicking my ass on my, uh, _idiosyncratic_ comma usage. Any remaining mistakes or weirdness are my own!
> 
> Thank you as well to familiardevil for her unending love and support. <3
> 
> ETA: Also, with this update, this fic is now the longest thing I've ever written. Woooow!

December

A month passed. Paris turned colder and damper, encased in a constant drizzle, and Enjolras’s stitches turned into a fine white scar over his eyebrow. Grantaire was nowhere to be found.

He considered asking Eponine, but the scowl she leveled at him a week after the protest was warning enough to keep away. She had been coming less and less frequently to meetings anyway. It probably was mostly to do with Marius, but Enjolras couldn’t shake the feeling she was also mad at _him_ because of how he’d handled Grantaire. 

“You did tell him not to come by any more,” pointed out Combeferre, when Enjolras mentioned Grantaire’s absence. They were in the library, surrounded by the tense buzz of students preparing for finals.

Enjolras made a face. “I was angry. I didn’t think he would take it to heart.”

Combeferre shook his head, but kept his eyes on the book in front of him. “You’re really terrible at people sometimes, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras didn’t respond. He rested his elbows against the table they were seated at and frowned at where someone had scratched “allez Paris” into the wood.

“What are you working on?” he asked eventually, rubbing at the graffiti idly.

“I’m studying for a history exam. Not all of us only take classes with papers.” 

“That’s true,” said Enjolras airily. “Some of us plan out our courses better.” 

Combeferre laughed and was quickly shushed by an angry look from a frazzled-looking student at the table across from them. 

“I’m not sure writing forty pages of essays over the course of a week is desirable to _anyone_ ,” whispered Combeferre, leaning across the table. “Shouldn’t you be working on those anyway?”

Enjolras shrugged and picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. He hated finals, though not for the usual reasons. Everything shut down during finals, and, when everyone was finished, rather than turn their minds to more important matters, they returned home. Whatever progress had been made on student campaigns lost ground, and it was difficult to recapture momentum from earlier in the semester.

The papers, however, would be fine. 

Sure enough, four days and seven pots of coffee later, Enjolras emerged from his apartment, having just e-mailed in his final paper on how _Martha Nussbaum’s defense of the legalization of sex-work, while necessary and robust, ultimately ignores the realities of class and racial oppression._

It was late afternoon, which meant, just a week shy of the solstice, it was already almost dark. It was an unusually clear day for mid-December, ringing with cold. Enjolras pulled his jacket around himself a little tighter as he walked. He had no destination in mind, just a desire to leave behind the stuffy prison of his apartment. 

Combeferre had left town on vacation with his parents, as had Courfeyrac. Feuilly and Jehan were still both in the city, but at their families’ homes, and Joly and Bossuet had departed to parts unknown with Musichetta. That left Marius, whom Enjolras found best when tempered by Courfeyrac’s levity, Cosette, whose father seemed to be loath to let her leave the house around Christmas, Eponine, who was mad at him, and, lastly, Grantaire. 

Enjolras paused as he came to cross-streets. Left would take him in the direction of Eponine and Grantaire’s apartment. 

It was time to apologize. He turned left. 

***

It was fully dark by the time he reached Grantaire’s apartment. From the outside, he couldn’t tell if a light was on, and, after ringing the buzzer went unanswered, he decided to try the back.

Enjolras knew from experience that the gate which cordoned off the back of the apartment – and the back stairs that served as fire escape – was easily scalable. He jumped the gate quickly and walked up. He could wait for Grantaire there.

But Grantaire was sitting on the top of the stairs, a bottle in one hand and a joint in the other. He looked haggard, his shoulders drooped and his curls limp around his face. He was wearing a ratty hooded sweatshirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“Enjolras!” he said, nearly dropping the bottle. “What are you doing here?”

Enjolras eyed the bottle critically. There were a couple more, scattered and empty behind Grantaire.

“Hello, Grantaire,” he said politely. “How are you?” 

Grantaire gave him a disbelieving look, eyes still wide and startled, “Answer my question first.”

Enjolras sighed. “I’m here to apologize,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. He was at the landing below Grantaire, and it made him uncomfortable to speak _upwards_ to him. “For how I spoke to you after the protest. You were well in your rights to be concerned.”

Grantaire stared down at him for a long moment. His face closed up slowly, eyes lidding and mouth tightening, then he sighed as well. He shifted over so his thigh pressed against the railing, and gestured to the space next to him. 

“It’s fine,” he muttered, taking a long pull from his beer and looking over Enjolras’s head, into the alleyway. “It wasn’t exactly unexpected.” He paused. “Besides, I figured I would slink back in around January, once you had time to cool down.”

“Well, thank you for understanding,” said Enjolras a bit stiffly. He walked up the remaining stairs and sat down next to Grantaire tentatively. “How were finals?”

Grantaire exhaled a stream of smoke and raised his eyebrows. Enjolras wrinkled his nose at the smell. The step was just wide enough to fit them both, and their thighs formed a long line of contact. Grantaire felt very warm compared to the cold streets.

“I wasn’t taking classes this semester.”

“You weren’t?” said Enjolras. “So you _did_ graduate last semester.” 

Grantaire laughed. “No. I just took the semester off.” He shrugged, and it wasn’t lost on Enjolras that Grantaire didn’t explain _why_ he hadn’t graduated. “I’ve been working at some bar.” 

“Oh.” Enjolras looked at Grantaire thoughtfully. “I didn’t know that.” 

Grantaire shrugged and brought the joint to his lips again. He inhaled, and Enjolras watched his throat work. He felt a bit unsettled. He knew so little about Grantaire, and Grantaire always seemed to know so much about him; Grantaire paid attention. 

“So no, ah.” Enjolras held his forefinger up and then slowly furled it, a reference to an art project Grantaire had completed the year before. “This year then.” 

Last December, as part of a two-year-long capstone project, Grantaire had created a neon penis that blinked from flaccidness to a full erection. Enjolras was pretty sure Courfeyrac had bought it off Grantaire after finals; he had definitely posed with it and then used the picture for Christmas cards. 

Grantaire grinned broadly, his voice turning fond. “Ah, Orestes Falling and Pylades Drunk,” he reminisced. “Or, as I liked to call it privately, ‘Ruminations on the Tragedy of Whiskey Dick’.”

Enjolras laughed. “A true masterpiece,” he said dryly. 

“You’re too kind.” Grantaire smiled at him broadly, and Enjolras smiled back. It felt nice to be able to joke around with Grantaire. It was something Grantaire seemed to manage with all their other friends in common, but rarely with Enjolras. They sat like that for a moment, just smiling, their breath and the smoke from Grantaire’s joint floating off together in the night. 

“Where’s Eponine?” asked Enjolras finally, when the silence went on a beat too long. 

Grantaire’s mouth curled. “The state’s decided the Thenardiers are competent parents at the moment, so she’s gone to see her brothers.”

“Ah.” Enjolras touched Grantaire’s wrist gently, in a comforting gesture; Grantaire was as protective of Eponine as she was of Grantaire. “And you’re not going home?”

He wasn’t, he realized, actually sure where Grantaire was from, what his relationship with his parents was like. 

“No,” stuttered out Grantaire after a moment. Enjolras watched his face curiously. Even in the darkness, he could tell Grantaire was blushing. “Uh, ah, what about you? Are you still pretending you jumped out of the earth fully formed?”

“My parents both work,” Enjolras replied, shrugging. He was still touching Grantaire’s wrist, and he ran his fingers lightly down the inside of Grantaire’s arm as he spoke, tracing the tattooed word _terreur_ there thoughtfully. “And all my business is here.” He thought, for a moment, about the empty house of his childhood, the way it devoured all but the largest sounds, and he felt no sense of loss. His home was here, even if most of his friends, currently, were not. 

“How loving,” murmured Grantaire. His eyes were fixed on the slow movement of Enjolras’s fingers. 

Enjolras stopped tracing the tattoo, but kept his hand on Grantaire’s arm. He look at him steadily. 

“Lamarque asked if I’d be willing to be arrested,” he said, filling the empty air between them.

Grantaire was quiet for a moment. “For what?”

“As part of a protest. There’s nothing specific planned. But, just in general.”

Grantaire exhaled and looked at him. “Well?” 

“I already told her yes,” said Enjolras quietly. It felt strange, saying this to Grantaire, saying it to anyone. He hadn’t even told Combeferre. 

Grantaire ran his hand through his hair. “I wondered when this was going to happen.” 

“You did?”

“Of course.” Grantaire flashed a smile. He had a slightly crooked jaw, Enjolras realized, and it gave his smile a disarming, knowing quality. “It was only a matter of time.” He brought the joint to his mouth again, and when he breathed out, said, “You’re pretty serious about this stuff.”

“This stuff,” repeated Enjolras flatly. 

“You know, this impassioned throwing your life away to save the world stuff. It’s really beautiful, the stuff of books. Maybe Jehan will write an epic poem about it, something with lots of iambs.”

“Don’t be facetious,” snapped Enjolras . “And I’m not throwing my life away.” 

“No, of course not,” scoffed Grantaire. “You’re going to convince the oppressed to throw off their shackles and usher in world-emancipation, one limping riot at a time.” 

Enjolras bit the inside of his lip and reminded himself not to be annoyed. Grantaire was like this; Grantaire wanted to provoke a reaction. 

“And what are you doing with your life?” he demanded. 

“Absolutely nothing,” smirked Grantaire. “Even if I do finish this fucking art degree, what will that say exactly? That I can draw? I already knew I could draw. That, for some reason, a flashing neon penis is considered a legitimate and acceptable form of expression? If I do get a job as an artist, it’ll be marketing, or illustrating insipid children’s books. Which is fine, really. I don’t have anything to say with my art. But I’d be just as happy tending bar the rest of my life. I don’t want a nine-to-five job.”

Enjolras brushed his thumb against Grantaire’s tattoo again. His heartbeat had gone up, and somewhere over the course of his rant, Grantaire had slipped from apathy to sincerity.

Other young adults were impossible creatures to Enjolras at times. His life had been one long bend towards justice, and while Lamarque’s question had shaken him for a moment, he had quickly realized it was the next step of a natural progression. Rather than sullenly accept the system as it was and merely live the edges, his plan was to stand outside it, and, eventually, to help end it. 

But others were unsure about themselves ,and even though they were reluctant to accept the long littleness of life, they were equally timid to help bring about a radical overhaul. 

“You’re thinking about overthrowing capitalism or something, aren’t you?” came Grantaire’s voice, eventually. 

“Yes,” admitted Enjolras. He let go of Grantaire’s arm. 

Grantaire smiled wryly. “People would still be unhappy,” he said. “That’s just the way things are. As soon as we manage to survive on a daily basis, we just want more things.” He looked at Enjolras seriously. “We want things we can’t have, which may not exist. Humans are greedy by nature. Most of us aren’t satisfied with brotherhood.” 

“That’s just how we’ve been conditioned to think,” insisted Enjolras. “We’re taught to value success, as indicated by the accumulation of material wealth. But that’s not _satisfying_ for people. Our natural state isn’t to spend most of our lives at work that means nothing to us, only to spend it on the trappings of material culture – the fine home, the car, the vacations along the coast. And then if we don’t acquire those things, we’re made to feel as if we’ve failed, but our worth isn’t our financial success! We can be fulfilled by brotherhood; we’re just taught not to be.”

Grantaire snorted and dropped his joint into his bottle. “That’s your problem. You think people are better than they actually are.” He stood up, holding the only rail slightly as he righted himself. “Now come on, I want to show you something.”

“Oh?” said Enjolras, standing too. His cheeks felt heated, and he clenched his hands. He wanted Grantaire to argue with him on this point; he wanted to convince Grantaire that there was a way out of his dread. 

Grantaire just patted his chest. “You wait out here. I’ll be right back.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows but nodded, albeit stiffly. Grantaire slipped back into his apartment. Enjolras could hear him singing to himself as he moved around inside. He counted the empty bottles on the fire escape as he placed them neatly to the side. There were three. 

“Are you going to be warm enough in that?” asked Grantaire, when he emerged. He had a patch-covered jacket over his sweater and a black scarf wrapped around his neck and over his mouth. Under his right arm, he held a large rolled tube of paper, and in his hand a brown paper bag. Enjolras looked at the bag suspiciously. 

“I’ll be fine,” he said curtly. “What is it you wanted to show me?”

Enjolras could see the smile in Grantaire’s eyes as he answered, slightly muffled. “I’m not going to give it away. Come on, Enjolras. Let’s go do something for fun.” 

He started down the stairs. Enjolras followed. He wanted to ask where they were going, but not as much as he wanted to keep Grantaire from gloating over having the answer. He kept quiet. Grantaire walked with a bouncy looseness, and he led Enjolras down the alleyway behind his apartment, then down another. After ten minutes, they finally ducked down a street barely wider than the alleys they’d been traveling along. It was empty, the few storefronts along the street dark and closed for the night. 

Grantaire paused at a broad expanse of blank wall, yellowed in the halo of a nearby street lamp.

“Good, it’s still blank,” he said. He placed the bag and rolled paper down, and from the bag pulled out tape and several bottles of spray paint. “Keep an eye out for the flics,” he instructed cheerfully. 

“Are you _graffiting?_ ” hissed Enjolras, finally catching on. “This is illegal.”

Grantaire laughed brightly. He began unrolling the paper tube, and Enjolras realized it was actually several large stencils, probably handmade, and rolled together. "Like you care about that. You're the one talking about getting arrested." 

"For a _point_! Grantaire, this is vandalism!" Enjolras turned away and peered down the street. There was no one in either direction. 

Grantaire let out a mock cry of dismay. " _Vandalism_? Enjolras, this is _art_. I'm sure you're aware of street art's illustrious history of promoting subversive political messages."

Enjolras snorted. "Oh yes," he sneered. "You're a real Banksy." 

Grantaire laughed again, but it was a darker sound this time. "Banky's a sell-out," he said dismissively. 

"A _sell-out_?" 

"Yeah, he is. So he went to the West Bank and put up some pretty pictures? Palestine's still not free, and he's making thousands in gallery showings." 

Enjolras didn't say anything. From far away came the sound of cars, but no one turned down this quiet, narrow street. Enjolras swallowed, more nervous than he was willing to admit. 

"It raised awareness," he finally said, a bit dubiously. It was possible Grantaire had a point. 

"If you only care about the Palestinians," there came the sound of ripping tape, "because some Brit painted a dove on a wall, then you really don't care, do you?"

Enjolras’s mouth twisted. "Like you care either way. But which is it then: is street-art a subversive political act, or is it a sell-out?"

"It can’t be both?” said Grantaire sweetly. “No doubt it started off subversively enough, but all art sells out in the end." 

"How optimistic." 

"I'm just saying - hold on, cover your face," Enjolras covered his face with his hands, and behind him, heard Grantaire spray paint against the wall. Grantaire spoke rapidly, his words tripping over and into themselves. "All right, you're okay. Like I was saying. The city council just paid a couple Italians to put up some street art, the point of which is its deterioration. They've _commodified_ entropy, and now street art's just another way for a business or a government or whatever to show how fucking _edgy_ they are. And it's not _just_ street art. Manet was so fucking shocking, he got rejected by the Salon, but now you give a fucking print of him to your mother for her birthday." 

Enjolras let the rant wash over him. "Your point?" he asked, when he realized Grantaire was waiting for a response.

"My _point_ ,” said Grantaire triumphantly, “is that there is no point." 

Enjolras sat down on the curb and laughed, tilting his face up. "That's always your point." He paused. "What are you even painting?" 

He half-turned, and Grantaire shouted in dismay and blocked the painting with his body. "Don't look! It's not done!"

Enjolras laughed again, in surprise this time. “Why are you being so dramatic?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. He drew his knees to his chest and rested his head on his arms. He thought about the graffiti in the library. It had been for a football team, probably scratched in a moment of idle boredom. It hadn’t meant anything; it had just made the table slightly worse. 

“It’s nihilistic,” Enjolras said thoughtfully. “So it’s, what, even at its best, making a point about capitalism or the uncaring face of the state? What’s putting a picture of a video game character on some shopkeeper’s door going to change? It’s,” he waved his hand, his mouth curling with distaste, “ _masturbatory_ -” Grantaire giggled, and Enjolras scowled, “ _Fine_ , self-congratulatory. All it does is degrade shared, common spaces. It’s a detriment to the community!” 

“Well, yeah,” interrupted Grantaire. “That’s what I was saying.”

“So why do it?” said Enjolras, frustrated. “Why make art unless it serves some higher purpose? Unless it’s moral? So these artists hate society as it is, so do most people. What are they doing positively to change it? Nothing!” 

There was a long pause, the silence filled with the sound of unsticking tape as Grantaire took down his current stencil. 

“You believe the world is perfectible,” said Grantaire, finally. “Very few people do.” 

“So they just,” Enjolras waved his hand down the street, as if he were encompassing all the graffiti in Paris, “cry out.” 

“Something like that,” said Grantaire. 

The cold of the curb was seeping through the thin fabric of Enjolras’s pants, and the stars looked very far away. He stood up and paced a ways down the street, irritated. 

“If you’re really so bored, go to the end of the street and keep an eye out there.” There was the sound of more paint being sprayed. “Someone’s more likely to come from that direction.”

“Who do you normally get to spot for you?” asked Enjolras, ignoring Grantaire’s instructions. 

“Gavroche likes to help.” A pause. “He’s started making stencils of his own. Don’t tell Eponine of course. She’ll kill me.” 

“That’s not really the disincentive you think it is,” muttered Enjolras dryly. He waved his arms for warmth, and tried to remember if he still owned a pair of gloves. He had had some last winter, but they may have been left somewhere. He kept returning to the question of graffiti. Surely some was better than others; a political slogan on a wall meant more than a sports slogan carved into some wood, and neither could really be considered art. 

Grantaire laughed, interrupting his thoughts. “Do it for Eponine? After she’s done murdering me, she’ll either face prison or she’ll have to find another roommate.”

“You’re so kind to always think of others,” deadpanned Enjolras. 

“Careful,” said Grantaire easily. “All these compliments may go to my head.”

“If the alcohol hasn’t gotten to it already.”

“Cutting as always, Enjolras,” said Grantaire, his voice gone soft in a way that gave Enjolras pause. 

Enjolras scuffed at the ground. “How much longer are you going to be?” he asked, exasperated. 

“Why? Are you bored? I’m sure there are some rats nearby you can organize.” 

Enjolras disdained to reply. He stalked down to the end of the street and looked out into the next one. If he were home, he could be reading. 

A dark figure hurried past on the other side of the street. Enjolras straightened up and watched the figure suspiciously until it turned down a different street. He relaxed after their footsteps faded away. So this was a little more exciting than reading a book. 

The night was quiet. They were far from the popular tourist spots, and from the full cafes and stifling clubs where everyone fled when it got cold.  
There was only one building with Christmas lights on the street he looked down on, and they seemed almost pathetic against the closed in, dingy darkness.

“Enjolras!” called Grantaire, after a while. Enjolras startled; his thoughts had drifted back to their conversation. “It’s done.” 

Enjolras went to look, and Grantaire gave him a smug, sly smile as he stepped aside. 

It was a painting of him.

Enjolras’s felt a swooping motion in his chest; it made a dim, hollow sort of sense for Grantaire to do this. He wasn’t sure, he was never sure, if Grantaire’s intent was flattery or mockery. And because of that, he was never sure how to react. 

He stared at the painting. It was clearly meant to be him, his face and shoulders done in reds and pins, oranges and whites. He was scowling in it, and his mouth was half-open, as if he’d been caught mid-word. He wondered if it were based off a photo. 

“Have you done more of these?” he asked, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears. 

“A few,” Grantaire admitted. His smile grew sharp. “You have quite the striking visage, Enjolras.”

It was strange to think of these, scattered in hidden places around the city: his face, flame-colored and terrible. 

“Is that why you do it?” asked Enjolras. 

“The art in general, or you specifically?” Grantaire was staring at him now, as if in anticipation of some kind of reaction. Enjolras refused to give it; he straightened his back. 

“Either,” he said dismissively.

“Ah.” Grantaire pulled his lighter and a cigarette from his pocket. The flicker from the lighter threw his face in bright relief, the dark line of his brows, the angles of his face. Enjolras’s stomach clenched and Grantaire’s lips curved around his cigarette in a smile. “Think of it like a political slogan; it’s what I believe in.” He flicked the lighter off, and then added into the blooming dark:

“You’re what I believe in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I know about street art comes from watching [Exit Through the Giftshop](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Exit_Through_the_Gift_Shop) and going on [this really awesome street art tour](http://www.alternativeldn.co.uk/walking_tours.php) in London. [Stencil graffiti](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stencil_graffiti) is really cool though, even though I have probably completely fucked up how it's done. (Similarly, I don't anything about making neon penises and suspect Grantaire may not actually have been allowed to do so. Ah, well. _Artistic license_.)
> 
> In my head, Grantaire's street art looks a bit like Parisian artist [C215's](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/C215_\(street_artist\)). Here's an [example](http://i.imgur.com/m2CBRCe.jpg). I feel like Grantaire's has the same kind of luminous quality. 
> 
> Street art, and the surrounding issues of appropriation, shared space, and how artwork becomes legitimated/mainstreamed, is all very interesting, and obviously there's much more to the discussion (and much more nuance!) than what just Grantaire and Enjolras were going on about. I do want to mention the fact that on the street art tour I went on, the guide lamented the fact that there weren't a lot of women street artists, and then, when pointing out a work by a woman street artist, talked about how she "wore a bikini" while making it and how much everyone enjoyed that, wink wink nudge nudge. So this is not a community and a movement without its glaring problems. 
> 
> The "commodifying entropy" artwork is [this one](http://streetartparis.org/blog/2012/06/25/sten-lex-hit-le-m-u-r-with-a-stencil-poster/), which was actually made last June, so I've mussed with time a bit. In general, making street art in December in a city that experiences rainy winters is probably a terrible idea. 
> 
> There are a few places where I have merrily ripped off lines from others. There's a pretty clear call back to MLK Jr's "the arc of the universe bends towards justice" from his Letter from Birmingham Jail. I've also stolen "the long littleness of life" from the History Boys, though it's actually from [Frances Cornford](http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Frances_Cornford), and apparently in context reads as follows:
> 
> A young Apollo, golden-haired,  
> Stands dreaming on the verge of strife,  
> Magnificently unprepared  
> For the long littleness of life. 
> 
> I'll let that sink in! I hope you all enjoyed, and, once again, thank you so, so much to everyone who has read, commented, kudos'd, bookmarked, or sent me messages on tumblr. You guys are tremendously lovely. 
> 
> Next part: party at Patron-Minette!


	5. January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! This part contains discussions of sexuality which may be uncomfortable to some readers, as well as some mild homophobia.
> 
> Uh, hello! This fic is not dead! Long live this fic! By way of explanation for my long absence, I for some reason decided it would be a good idea to have the largest project of my academic career (my 40 page BA thesis) and the first draft of my largest fannish project to date (my fic for spn_j2_bigbang) due within three weeks of each other - April 12th and May 1st, respectively. And I've variously been out of town, turned 22, had friends visit from out of town, and gone through some personal drama. So I'm afraid this fic kind of got shuffled to the side for awhile.
> 
>  _However_ , I fully intend to finish this fic, and I'm very sorry for the delay. Thank you so much to everyone who has read, kudos'd, commented, messaged me on tumblr, recced this, or produced related fanworks to it. I may not always have the time and energy to respond, but your guys' appreciation for this fic means a lot to me. <3 And on the note of fanworks, check out: [this stunning artwork](http://perplexingly.tumblr.com/post/45945706084/from-the-world-historical-by) for the last chapter, as well as [this fantastic piece](http://jen-suis.tumblr.com/post/46722633261/i-drew-a-fanart-for-a-world-historical-in-mizus) which has scenes from the first two chapters, _and_ [this lovely poem](http://demonsonthemoon.tumblr.com/post/51240551898/until-december%22) based on the last chapter. 
> 
> My infinite gratitude to [Kyra](desamisdelabc.tumblr.com), who, after two months of silence and in the middle of finals, suddenly received my typo-ridden draft and valiantly rose to the occasion as a beta par excellence.
> 
> Happy reading! My apologies in advance to anyone who knows anything about (a) utilitarianism and (b) Rousseau.  
> 

January

Montparnasse was studying finance, and, thus, as far as Enjolras was concerned, he was a criminal-in-training.

“Oh don’t be like that,” snapped Eponine, rolling her eyes. “We can’t all study philosophy. Some of us have to make practical decisions.”

Enjolras snorted. "You're equating practicality with self-interest. But, if you think of practicality as utility, then, in utilitarian ethics, another financier neither maximizes happiness nor reduces suffering."

Grantaire looped an arm around Enjolras's shoulder, ignoring Enjolras's raised eyebrows. It was a cold night though, their breaths pluming in front of them, and Enjolras, on some small level, appreciated the sudden extra warmth Grantaire provided. But he did not lean in. 

"But what's wrong with self-interest?" asked Grantaire cheerfully. "Don't you always drone on about self-interest in your rules of organizing?" He used his free hand to make quotation marks. " _Self-interest isn't selfishness; it's how you get people to organize._ " He grinned broadly, looking proud of himself. 

"Fair enough," acknowledged Enjolras. His mouth twitched in amusement. He ducked out from under Grantaire's arm and stepped around Eponine so that she now walked between the two of them. 

Grantaire let him go, but he was still smiling faintly. "Though that leaves the question of why you're coming to this party, considering your less than admirable opinion of the host. It’s hardly in _your_ self-interest." 

Enjolras shrugged. "Courfeyrac and Combeferre are going to be there." 

It came out a bit stiffly; Courfeyrac _had_ invited him that morning, but until that evening, when Enjolras had dropped by Grantaire and Eponine’s to hand over some flyers, he’d had no intention of going. Patron-Minette, as Montparnasse and his friends styled themselves, was only a few blocks from Grantaire and Eponine's. There were rumors that they made most of their money selling drugs to the student population. Enjolras tended to find them distasteful.

"And I invited you along," added Grantaire smugly. 

"Yes," deadpanned Enjolras. His stomach prickled. "I'm only going because of you." 

Grantaire practically preened. "I'm glad you’re willing to admit it." 

"God, you two are obnoxious," declared Eponine. She quickened her step, forcing Enjolras to lengthen his stride so he wouldn't be left behind with Grantaire. 

Things had felt odd between them since the night Enjolras had apologized to Grantaire the month before. Grantaire seemed looser, somehow, around Enjolras. Grantaire had always been more familiar with Enjolras than Enjolras was strictly comfortable with, but now it seemed like perhaps Grantaire had earned some of that familiarity. It occurred to Enjolras that the change was perhaps more in how he acted around Grantaire than in how Grantaire acted around him. In Enjolras's more honest moments, he now considered Grantaire a friend, even if the nature of that friendship was still puzzling. 

They could hear the party’s music from three buildings away. A large group of people milled around in front of the building, several of them smoking, and Grantaire and Eponine nodded to a few as they pushed towards the wedged open door. A hastily scrawled sign on lined paper pointed the way to the party, but it was hardly necessary. The music was almost overwhelming, and scattered party-goers lined the staircase to the second floor, where the party was spread between the two apartments that faced each other across the landing. One girl clung to the bannister midway up the stairs, crying, while her friend bent over her, patting her back consolingly. 

Enjolras paused, and Eponine shoved at his shoulder. 

“Keep going,” she instructed sharply. “You’re just going to bother them.” 

Enjolras allowed himself to be shepherded away, but he spared a look back for the two women, concerned. On the landing, Enjolras could feel the heat from everyone inside the apartment to the right. 

At the doorway, Enjolras paused, and Grantaire, with a look of mild concern, offered Enjolras his flask.

“You may find this necessary,” he counseled. “A little liquid courage. And Montparnasse’s the kind of dick who always charges for his drinks.” 

Eponine looked smug. “Not if you’re the right people,” she said, opening the door. A wave of humid heat swept out, and Eponine disappeared inside, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she went. 

Grantaire wrinkled his nose disdainfully. “Which most of us peasants aren’t,” he muttered to Eponine’s wake. His eyes settled back on Enjolras and he smiled brightly and waved his flask in front of Enjolras’s face. “Well?”

“No, thank you,” said Enjolras briskly. He took a step away from the door. “Why do people even go if they charge for drinks?” 

“Because everyone goes to Montparnasse’s parties, and because everyone goes, not only _must_ he charge, he can afford to charge.” Grantaire smiled. “It’s the will of the people, Enjolras. It’s rather Rousseauvian in a way.” 

Enjolras snorted. “Yes,” he said heavily, staring at the apartment door. “This is exactly what Rousseau meant by the general will.”

Grantaire took a swig from his flask. He touched Enjolras’s shoulder and leaned into his space. “Come along, Enjolras. The general will wants to party. And who are you to deny the people?” 

Enjolras leaned away, feeling uneasy. The bass from the music beat in his knees. He had no desire to go inside, where it would be louder, sweatier, and darker. 

“I think someone should go check on those girls,” he said decisively. He took another step back towards the stairs. 

Grantaire screwed the cap back onto his flask. Slowly, he raised his eyebrows. “And that person should be you? Going to go be the white knight?” 

“They might need help,” he said. 

Grantaire snorted. His flask disappeared into a pocket. “God speed then, comrade.” 

Grantaire yanked open the door, allowing another blast of humid heat to escape. People were practically falling out the door. Grantaire gave Enjolras one last bemused look then squeezed inside, leaving Enjolras alone in front of the doorway.

He stood there for a moment, and then walked down back the stairs. He wasn’t sure what he would say to the girls when he approached them, but he had committed to that action now. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, they were gone. 

He sighed, then turned and went back up the stairs to the landing. After a moment’s hesitation, he plunged inside. He found himself immediately being squeezed forward by the crowd. He let them move him, hoping vaguely he might find Grantaire somewhere. 

After a moment of being buoyed by the crowd, someone grabbed his elbow and cried directly into his ear. “Enjolras! I never expected to see you here!”

He turned as best he could. Courfeyrac beamed at him. Enjolras smiled brightly in response, relieved to find a familiar and friendly face. They hugged. 

“I dropped by Eponine’s,” explained Enjolras when he pulled away. “And Grantaire invited me along.” He had to practically yell to be heard, and the surge of the crowd shoved him directly into Courfeyrac. 

“R, eh?” said Courfeyrac with an arch smile. He gripped Enjolras’s shoulder to steady him. “And where is he now?”

“Wherever the alcohol is, I’m sure,” said Enjolras. 

“Don’t be cruel,” laughed Combeferre, appearing suddenly from behind Courfeyrac. He looked remarkably unruffled and dignified, even among the press of people. 

“The truth is hardly cruel,” said Enjolras. Someone elbowed him in the side, and then stepped on his foot. He tried to turn to glare, and was forced against the wall. 

“There’s some wisdom to drinking at a party like this,” said Courfeyrac, grinning. Combeferre was shoved up against him. 

“It would have been wiser to avoid the party all together,” grumbled Enjolras. 

Courfeyrac and Combeferre both nodded and smiled at him. It was clear they hadn’t heard him. Enjolras thought wistfully of his apartment. 

The center of the room was a vortex of dancing bodies, and their gyrating movements eddied out the edges to press those who weren’t dancing up against the walls, like tied up boats being knocked against the quay by the ocean’s churn. The music was a physical force that Enjolras could feel in his bones, and his coat hung heavy and hot on him. He was sweating already, and the air smelled thickly of perspiration, was humid from the press of people. The bright bodies were dizzying, and he thought of how cold they would all be, once outside in the stark January night. 

He felt overwhelmed. 

Combeferre noticed his discomfort and patted his chest. He was slightly flushed in a way that was rare to see. 

“We should see if the other apartment is less crowded!” he suggested, shouting over the din. 

Enjolras nodded quickly. 

The furniture was all in the next apartment. It was a pile of mattresses and couches. There was a table stacked precariously on top of another table, and several chairs had been stacked on as well, giving the whole contraption the appearance of an armament. The entire effect of the piled furniture was that of a barricade. 

Montparnasse, sprawled out in an armchair that was unconnected to any other piece of furniture, was holding court. 

“Enjolras!” he said, when Enjolras entered. That gave Enjolras pause; he hadn’t been aware that Montparnasse knew him well enough to call him by name. “How strange to see you here!” 

Enjolras looked at him bemusedly. “You’re not the first person to say that tonight.” 

“And I probably won’t be the last,” said Montparnasse, laughing at Enjolras with his cat-eyes. “Please, all of you, sit.” 

They sat on a mattress piled with rugs, Courfeyrac with loose limbs and an easy laugh, Combeferre carefully and steadying himself on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, and Enjolras last and more smoothly than either of them. Courfeyrac immediately rested his head on Combeferre’s thigh and smiled gleefully at Enjolras. Enjolras smiled at him; he’d clearly already drunk quite a lot, and by the way Combeferre’s hand was resting in Courfeyrac’s curls, so had Combeferre. Now sitting with his friends, Enjolras felt more comfortable, even under Montparnasse’s mocking gaze.

“I hope you’re not all here to protest something,” laughed Montparnasse. A smile twisted its way across his face, and he recaptured the attention of the room. “Or do you have a petition you’re trying to get signed?” 

“Yes!” shouted Courfeyrac, also laughing. “I’ve been considering a petition for a better dj!” A titter went up around the room, and Enjolras heard Grantaire’s familiar amused roar. 

He half-turned and spotted Grantaire lounging on a black futon, his arm around a slim, copper-haired youth. In his other hand he was holding a red cup. His face was ruddy, his expression glowing, and he caught Enjolras’s gaze with a broad grin. Enjolras looked away, back to Montparnasse.

Montparnasse gave him a sickly smile, ignoring Courfeyrac’s jest. “But what are you all working on now?” he pressed. “Are you helping the homosexuals get married?”

“No, we’re not particularly working on the marriage equality campaign,” said Enjolras, picking his words carefully. “But we support it, and some of our members have been attending rallies on their own time.”

“Really?” Montparnasse leaned forward. His eyes glittered. There was an eternal feverishness to him that Enjolras found unsettling, which seemed to Enjolras to translate into a nihilistic impulse to burn everyone else up along with him. “I would’ve thought the homosexuals’ cause would have been close to _your_ heart, Enjolras.”

Enjolras smiled faintly. “Is that supposed to be offensive?” he asked. He kept his voice light. Dimly, he was aware that Grantaire’s smile had dropped and that he was staring at him. 

“It was just an observation,” said Montparnasse sweetly. “Was I wrong to think it?”

“Any injustice is personal to me,” said Enjolras firmly. He heard Grantaire snort in the corner. Combeferre squeezed Enjolras’s wrist, a gesture both fond and supportive. Enjolras squared his shoulders.

Montparnasse let out a low bark of laughter. “You’re as slippery as a politician,” he said sharply, and _that_ made Enjolras’s cheeks heat. “But I suppose you would think marriage is oh-so-bourgeois. It doesn’t get you far enough away from your wealthy scion roots, does it?”

“ _Montparnasse_!” snarled Grantaire’s voice. He sounded upset, which surprised Enjolras. Montparnasse wasn’t saying anything that Grantaire himself hadn’t implied before.

“He doesn’t need your help, dog,” said Montparnasse. His scornful eyes were settled firmly on Enjolras, and it took Enjolras a second to realize Montparnasse had replied to Grantaire. “Do you, Enjolras?” 

“And what would I need help from?” said Enjolras, frowning now. “You belittle sincerity because you’re incapable of it. The most important things to you are yourself and the pretense of cynicism. There’s little to respect, and even less to fear. Of course I don’t need help to deal with you.” 

“Oh well, now I’ve been _duly_ chastened,” laughed Montparnasse, but his eyes had narrowed angrily as Enjolras spoke, and they had flicked, almost imperceptibly, to Eponine. She was studying her nails, seated a few feet away from Montparnasse. She looked bored. 

Enjolras smiled at him serenely and stood up. Courfeyrac gave his ankle a gentle squeeze. From the corner of his eye, he could see Grantaire still watching him. 

“Something to think about, at least,” he offered.

Enjolras strode out, from the apartment and down the stairs, still full of lingerers, and out into the purifying cold. The walk back to his apartment was calm. He felt the party slip away from him.

***

Enjolras had been home and reading at his desk for almost three hours when he heard a knock at the door. It took him a moment to realize it was _his_ door; he was more accustomed to arriving at Combeferre’s apartment in the middle of the night, bursting with a new stratagem or diatribe, than he was used to someone showing up at his place. But the first knock was followed by another, louder this time, and Enjolras arose, feeling annoyed and sure that whoever it was, they were drunk and lost.

He was right only on the first count.

“Enjolras!” shouted Grantaire happily, as soon as Enjolras opened the door. He pitched forward, directly onto Enjolras. Grantaire had nothing on Enjolras in height, but he was broader and heavier, and Enjolras staggered for a moment under his weight. 

“Ah,” said Enjolras. He brought his hands up and gripped Grantaire’s back, steadying him. “What are you doing here?” 

“I missed you,” slurred Grantaire. “You left the party,” he added accusingly. “You gave quite the little speech. I was very impressed. You’ve convinced me, I think. To give up my cynical ways. Also, I wanted to ask you something.”

Enjolras shuffled backwards a few steps. “How drunk are you?”

“Are you a virgin?” said Grantaire abruptly. He was very drunk, Enjolras decided; the words practically crumbled in his mouth. 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I’m not answering that question.” 

“Why not?” demanded Grantaire. He pressed his face into Enjolras’s neck; his nose poked against the pulse point. 

“Because it’s personal,” said Enjolras peevishly. He inched backward a few steps, Grantaire’s weight still mostly on him. 

“Was Montparnasse right?”

“Considering it’s Montparnasse, probably not.”

“But was he?” insisted Grantaire. He pulled his face from Enjolras’s neck and stared at him. This close, Enjolras could see that his eyes were bloodshot. His mouth looked slightly swollen. “Are you gay?” 

“What do you think?” They were almost to Enjolras’ bed now. 

Grantaire let out a long sigh and rested his forehead against Enjolras’s shoulder, but he obligingly shuffled along. His hair tickled Enjolras’s nose. 

“I’m not sure you’re attracted to anyone,” he said morosely. 

“Ah,” said Enjolras, and he dropped Grantaire onto the bed. Grantaire grabbed at his arm and tried to pull Enjolras down with him. 

“Enjolras,” he wheedled. “Come here.” 

Enjolras pulled away sharply and took a step back. 

“No.” 

Grantaire tried to sit up and reached for him again, but he slumped back down immediately. Enjolras retreated a few steps back all the same. He took out his phone and called Courfeyrac.

“Enjolras?” laughed Courfeyrac when he picked up. “This is a surprise.” 

In the background, Enjolras could hear Combeferre let out a similar laugh. “ _Enjolras is calling?_ ” 

“Yes, I am,” said Enjolras. He tried not to sound petulant. “I need your help.” 

“That sounds serious.” 

“It’s not. Not really.” He glared at Grantaire. “Grantaire’s just showed up at my apartment. He’s extremely intoxicated.” 

Courfeyfac laughed delightedly. “And you’ve called me up as an expert?” 

“Something like that,” said Enjolras agreeably. “What do I do with him? He’s in no shape to get home by himself.” He scowled at Grantaire’s prone form. “Even though he managed to make it _here_.”

“Poor Enjolras,” teased Courfeyrac. “All you can really do is make sure he doesn’t drown in his own vomit at this point.” Enjolras wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Get him a glass of water and put your trash can near his head.” 

“Being drunk is foul,” Enjolras informed him. “But thank you.”

“Any time, my friend,” said Courfeyrac grandly. “And don’t judge us lesser mortals too much.” 

“I don’t judge.” Grantaire had rolled onto his side and was looking at him through his lashes. His eyes shone in the near-dark. Enjolras only had his desk-lamp on. “I’m just confused.” 

“My apologies,” said Courfeyrac, with real warmth in his voice. Enjolras found himself wishing he’d stayed at the party a little longer, if only to enjoy his friends’ company. “Do you need anything else?” 

“No,” sighed Enjolras. “How did the rest of the party go?” 

“Police showed up an hour after you left,” chuckled Courfeyrac. “Apparently the plaster was falling off on the ceiling below.” 

Enjolras huffed, torn between his instinctive distaste for the police and his natural sympathy for the people who lived beneath Patron-Minette. 

“How unfortunate,” he said dryly. “Thank you for your advice. Have a good night.” 

He hung up and studied Grantaire. “Would you like some water?” he asked. 

Grantaire shook his head, and then he moaned, “ _No_.”

“Well you should have some anyway.” Enjolras walked to his sink. He had a clean mug that he filled with water and brought back to Grantaire. “Sit up.” 

Grantaire scowled at him, but he sat up slowly. He looked pale, and Enjolras remembered Courfeyrac’s _other_ piece of advice. As soon as Grantaire took the cup, Enjolras darted to his desk and brought the trash can over as well. 

“If you throw up in my bed, I’ll throw you out the window,” he threatened, placing the trash can by Grantaire’s head. 

“You’re not strong enough,” muttered Grantaire. He sipped at his water sulkily. 

“Let’s not find out,” warned Enjolras, and he retreated to his desk. He sat at the chair and frowned at Grantaire thoughtfully. “Why are you here?” 

Grantaire shrugged. “I wanted to see you,” he said. There was a vague, pensive look about his face that troubled Enjolras. Courfeyrac’s laughter always seemed borne of a genuine good will, but Grantaire’s had always had more the air of a defense to it. It wasn’t a defense Enjolras was comfortable watching disappear. “It seemed like a good idea.” 

Enjolras sighed and studied his hands. “I’m flattered,” he said. 

“You left the party,” said Grantaire, repeating his accusation from earlier.

“I did. I wasn’t enjoying myself.” 

“Because of Montparnasse?” 

Enjolras shrugged. “Partly.” 

“He’s an asshole,” said Grantaire, a bit viciously. 

“He is,” replied Enjolras calmly. 

“Where are you going to sleep?” 

“I don’t know,” said Enjolras, startled at the sudden change in subject. “I’m not very tired at the moment. Probably here once I am.”

“At your _chair_?”

“Well, my bed is rather occupied.” 

Grantaire frowned at him. “You need more furniture. Like a fucking couch or something. Jesus Christ, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras laughed. “Oh, so it’s _my_ fault I have nowhere to sleep tonight.” 

“I could sleep on the floor!” said Grantaire, expression flipping suddenly to earnest. 

“Grantaire, really, it’s fine. I’m not tired, and I can sleep after you leave in the morning.”

Grantaire nodded, looking chastened. He finished his water and, very carefully, placed it on the floor.

Enjolras shuffled some of the papers on his desk. He had no nervous tics, normally, but he wasn’t sure what to do with Grantaire in his bed, staring woefully at him.

“Who was that boy at the party?” he asked, putting the papers back in their original position. 

“Boy?”

“With the red hair.”

Grantaire snorted, and the confusion dropped from his face. “Only you would call someone your age a _boy_.”

“Fine, young man then. Who was he?” 

“Why do you care?”

“I’m curious.” 

“It’s not fair to ask me questions right now,” whined Grantaire. 

“Why not?” 

“Because I’m drunk and you’re not. It’s a power imbalance. It wouldn’t be virtuous of you to take advantage of me in such a state as I am.” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “So don’t answer.”

Grantaire scowled at him. “He was just someone at the party. He wasn’t a very good kisser.” He smiled wickedly. “But his mouth was pretty good at other things.”

Enjolras turned scarlet. “I didn’t realize you were…” 

“A _homosexual_?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve always thought it was rather obvious,” said Grantaire. He looked amused, but Enjolras could sense a note of caution to his voice.

“I don’t know,” said Enjolras carefully. “It’s not something I really think about.”

“About yourself or others?” 

Enjolras made a face at him. “Both, I suppose.”

“I’ve always heard university’s an excellent time to figure that stuff out.” Grantaire smirked. 

“Shut up,” laughed Enjolras. He pillowed his head on his arms. The conversation made him feel strangely exposed. From Montparnasse, he realized that people had certain ideas about him. But sex in general was a baffling concept to Enjolras, and the prominence of it, as a thing to fear or desire, in the minds of others eluded him completely. If he had ever been infatuated with someone, he had mistaken it as admiration. In rare moments, he thought he was missing out on something, like the punch line of a joke everyone else understood. 

“But if you were going to,” pressed Grantaire, oblivious to Enjolra’s discomfort, “who would it be with?”

“I thought I was the one asking questions,” grumbled Enjolras. He didn’t know why he was letting this conversation continue. 

“Come on,” said Grantaire. “Male? Female? Both? Other? Whatever?” 

“I said I hadn’t thought about it,” said Enjolras. A warning note crept into his voice. 

“Everyone thinks about it.” 

“Clearly they don’t if _I_ don’t.” 

“So you’re more sexless than the angels?” Grantaire’s hands waved wildly in the air as he made his point. Even lying down drunk, he gesticulated. “Even _they_ slept with the daughters of man.”

“I didn’t say _that_ either,” said Enjolras hotly. He sat up to glare at Grantaire. “I just said I didn’t think about it.” 

Grantaire stared at him in bewilderment. “How on earth not?”

“I have more important things to think about than _sex_!” he snapped. 

“Well that’s hardly the kind of sex-positive message Les Amis would endorse.”

Enjolras didn’t respond. His ears were hot, and he held his book in front of his face. Grantaire snorted disdainfully, but he didn’t press the point. The moments passed tensely, but after a quarter of an hour, Grantaire began to snore. Slowly, Enjolras put his book down. He watched Grantaire until he felt strange about it. There was nothing particularly endearing about the way Grantaire slept. He was sprawled out on his back and had somehow, in the short span of time of being in the bed, managed to twist himself into the sheets. His mouth hung open. 

Enjolras sighed and rested his head on his arms again, pausing only to switch the light off on his desk-lamp. He fell asleep, eventually, slumped over the desk, and he woke up with a crick in his back just as the sky was greying. It took him a moment to realize where he was and what had woken him, and then he heard Grantaire groan from the bathroom. The bed was empty. 

Enjolras sat up slowly, arching his back a bit to ease the pain. He heard Grantaire groan again, followed by the distinct noise of throwing up. Enjolras sighed and stood, his back protesting. He walked stiffly to the bathroom, not even bothering to knock as he entered. His head felt fuzzy from poor sleep. It must have only been a couple hours since he fell asleep. 

“I don’t understand,” he grumbled, sitting down on the floor across from where Grantaire was bent over the toilet, “what the point of going to the party was.” 

Grantaire made a wheezing sound that Enjolras took to be a laugh. “Eponine’s hooking up with Montparnasse again. I wanted to keep an eye on her.”

Enjolras squinted at him. It was impossible to tell Grantaire’s expression. “She’s an adult,” he pointed out. “It’s her right to make her own decisions.”

“Even terrible ones?” 

“Yes,” said Enjolras quickly. “Of course.” He paused and added tartly. “Though you’re one to talk.” 

Grantaire let out a real laugh at that, a hoarse, cracking laugh that was quickly followed by more vomiting. Enjolras winced. 

“You don’t really believe that,” said Grantaire, sounding raw, when he had finished. Enjolras handed him the glass of water. Grantaire took it with a surprised expression, but his voice didn’t falter. “You only believe it because you think people are rational, and they’ll make the right choices if only they have the right fucking education or whatever.” 

He pressed his forehead against the edge of the toilet. The bathroom was beginning to smell faintly sour. Enjolras considered leaving; he was satisfied Grantaire was cogent enough not to kill himself accidentally. And with Grantaire in the bathroom, the bed would be free. 

“But people aren’t rational,” continued Grantaire. There was a flat, hypnotic quality to his voice that made Enjolras think he was speaking for his own benefit, as something to concentrate on and keep his mind off the roil of his gut. “Not ultimately. It’s not the nineteenth century any more. The Enlightenment is dead.” 

“I don’t think I agree,” said Enjolras carefully. He played with the hem of his trousers. They were dirty and worn at the back, where they got caught under his heel occasionally. “People may not always be rational. But they have dignity. The Enlightenment was right about that.” 

“Dignity?” snorted Grantaire. He raised himself up slightly and gestured at the toilet bowl. His eyes were bloodshot. “There’s nothing dignified about this.” 

“You still have dignity,” he said levelly, and he regarded the man beneath the stubble and the haze of alcohol. He saw in Grantaire his talent, his humor, his hidden compassion, and his strange but steadfast loyalty. There was in Grantaire, as there was in all men, a hidden core of light and of worth. 

Grantaire’s pale face turned red under Enjolras’s gaze, and he looked away. “Yeah,” he muttered to the tiles. “That’s what separates us from the animals; we vomit into a toilet instead of on the ground.”

“What poetry,” muttered Enjolras. He closed his eyes and let his head rest against the tiles. He was beginning to feel nauseous. He wanted to ask if Grantaire was an alcoholic, but the word hung uneasily on his tongue. Courfeyrac had said to him, back in their first year when Enjolras had disdainfully refused an invitation to a party, that “To the sober man, everyone’s a drunk.” It was possible – likely even – that Enjolras didn’t have the right perspective for that kind of question. 

There was a long silence. It seemed like Grantaire had stopped throwing up.

“You shouldn’t have pissed off Montparnasse.” 

Enjolras laughed. “It was banter, Grantaire.” 

“He’s dangerous,” persisted Grantaire. “His friends are dangerous.” 

Enjolras leaned over and patted Grantaire’s back. “Thank you for your concern,” he said gravely. He used Grantaire to stand up, letting his weight rest on Grantaire for a moment. “But I think I’ll be okay.” 

Grantaire glared at him. His eyes were even more bloodshot than they’d been the night before, and his jaw was dark with stubble. He closed the toilet lid and flushed, then slowly got to his feet as well. They both stood there for a moment, in the cramp sick-smell of Enjolras’s bathroom, and looked at each other. Grantaire’s curls were limp, his skin clammy. Enjolras let his gaze drop, and he spotted a pale strip of Grantaire’s stomach. His shirt had ridden up.

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” said Enjolras quickly. “There’s toothpaste in the medicine cabinet if you want something to gargle with.“

He escaped, and once in the kitchen, leaned against the counter as he listened to Grantaire gargle. It made him feel anxious to have someone else in his apartment, he decided. It was his private space, a necessary way to occasionally sequester himself from the world. His discomfort had nothing to do with Grantaire. 

Grantaire emerged from the bathroom and Enjolras met him halfway between there and the apartment to hand him the glass of water. 

Grantaire accepted it with a grateful look and then froze. He stared at a point behind Enjolras.

“Grantaire?” asked Enjolras. He took a small, discreet step away, in case Grantaire was about the throw up again. 

“You took that?” said Grantaire, his voice rising queerly. He gestured behind Enjolras. Enjolras turned and saw where he had hung up the cardboard cutout of France Grantaire had made months ago for his Halloween costume. It was the only decoration in the apartment.

“I did,” said Enjolras. “Er, is that all right? Eponine was under the impression it would just be thrown out.” 

“You _kept_ it?” 

“I think that’s rather obvious,” he responded tartly. 

Grantaire gaped at him for a moment. He looked faintly ridiculous and fish-like, his eyes wide and his mouth open. 

“ _Why_?”

Enjolras shrugged. “Because I liked it.”

Grantaire took a step towards him. His face firmed up, and he appeared to be on the edge of making an important decision. He touched Enjolras’s shoulder. 

“Enjolras-” he began, and then he caught himself. He pulled away. Enjolras felt a moment of vertigo, the disconcerting sense of taking a step and not finding the floor. He had missed something, and it tugged at him. 

“You never properly explained why you came to the party,” said Grantaire.

Enjolras looked at him, disconcerted and still feeling that sense of having missed something. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, and he didn’t. “Maybe because you thought I was going to say no.” 

Grantaire smiled wistfully at him. “Fair enough.” He bowed elaborately, though he still looked pale and clammy. “I won’t impose on you further. My endless gratitude for your hospitality, Monsieur Enjolras.” 

“Are you sure you’re fit to leave? It’s probably cold out there.” 

Grantaire laughed. “Probably? Enjolras, it’s January.” 

“So definitely cold then.”

Grantaire gave him a genuine smile. “It’s touching that you’re concerned. I’ll be fine.” His flask suddenly appeared in his hands, winking silver at Enjolras. “I have hair of the dog and an alcohol blanket.” 

“Oh, then of course you’ll be fine,” said Enjolras, unimpressed. 

Grantaire saluted him. “If I freeze to death, at least I’ll die a happy man.” 

“And why is that?” 

Grantaire winked. “Because I spent the night in your bed, of course.” 

Enjolras gaped, and Grantaire closed the door too quickly for him to come up with a response. The thought struck him that Grantaire _had_ spent the night in his bed. No doubt some of his warmth still lingered there. 

Enjolras opened his window and let in the sickle cold. He wanted it to slice the strange, long night from him, but all he could think about was Grantaire, his dark, hunched figure, heading home against the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, so I admit by the time I finished this part I was kind of sick of my writing. So I don't entirely remember everything in here that could use a helpful wiki link? 
> 
> However, I don't think Enjolras is really a utilitarian when it comes to ethics. Mainly because [utilitarianism](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Utilitarianism) is _terrible_. But, really, any chance to make fun of an econ or finance major, amirite? (My apologies to any econ or finance majors reading this; you are probably not a future criminal!)
> 
> The bit about Rousseau is a riff on the [general will](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/General_will), which is an interesting idea I don't really understand that well. (Which, let's be honest, is true of many ideas). And as you're probably aware, France just legalized gay marriage, so that was what that was in reference to. For some excellent meta, by the way, on how a modern day Enjolras would feel about gay marriage and queer rights, I direct you to barricadeur's post [here](http://barricadeur.tumblr.com/post/44763514390/so-whats-enjolrass-criticism-of-hrc-that-they). Those are (roughly) my thoughts on the matter as well, though of course a modern day France Enjolras would not be so concerned with the HRC, per se, and my Enjolras runs a bit more ace than barricadeur's does. So the extent to which my Enjolras is directly concerned with the politics of queer respectability is more limited. But still! Great meta and good reading!
> 
> Finally, the Enlightenment talk in the bathroom is a weird synthesis/abbreviation of a lot of postmodern thought. If I were less keen on getting this part up pronto, I would probably spend some time rambling about what is self interest and what is rational and how did these ideas come out of the Enlightenment and what does it mean that self-interested and rational are hallmarks of the western, enlightened man, etc etc. But I'm sleepy and you all have waited too long, so I'm going to wrap these notes up. 
> 
> Next part! More Combeferre and a return to actual student activism! Thank you all for reading. <3


	6. February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha - has it, has it really been almost a year? So (1) I'm really sorry to anyone still reading this for how long the wait has been. I am a worm, and you all have been wonderful, patient, and gracious readers. (2) By way of explanation (though not excuse), here's how my last year has gone: graduated college, moved cross-country, started a new job (as a student organizer lolol), worked a lot of 12-15 hour days and cried all the time, left my job, was disillusioned with The Movement and activism and also sad and unemployed, got a new job, moved cross-country again. 
> 
> Also I got stuck on a scene that took me forever to untangle. BUT TL;DR I AM SO SORRY I LOVE YOU PLEASE FORGIVE ME

“Though men think stars in sky abide  
methinks more like they are in your eyes,  
and there is no birdsong nor babbling brook  
for all that’s sweet your voice hath took.

And nowhere is there one so fair,  
as you, my love, who walks on air.  
And I – trembling – can barely see  
why one so pure should look at me.”

“Stop! Please! Courfeyrac!” Jehan held his hands over his ears and grimaced. “Mercy!”

“I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it,” said Courfeyrac through his laughter. “I think it’s charming! Marius works very hard on his poems for Cosette.”

“Well, I mean,” said Jehan, cringing. “He’s very. He’s obviously. He must be _really_ in love.”

Courfeyrac covered his hand with his mouth and let out a muffled shriek of laughter. Jehan snatched the poem away from him and read the rest, mouthing the words silently. 

“A sonnet?” he said mournfully. “What did Petrarch do to deserve this?”

Combeferre sighed and pulled the poem away from Jehan. 

“You should know better than to expose Jehan to Marius’s poetry,” he scolded Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac slowly lowered his hands from his mouth and wiped at the corners of his eyes. “I can’t help it,” he said, aiming wide, innocent eyes at Combeferre. “The struggle between Jehan’s desire to be _nice_ and his love of poetry is just too funny.” 

“It’s also not very kind. You should respect Marius’s privacy.” But the faintest shadow of a smile crossed Combeferre’s face, and he nodded at Jehan as he folded the poem up and pocketed it. “And Jehan’s art.” 

“You are far wiser and kinder than any of us,” said Courfeyrace gravely. He draped his arms over Combeferre’s shoulders and leaned against him, then smiled at Enjolras. “Don’t you agree, Enjolras?” 

Enjolras jerked his head up at the mention of his name. He had been only half-listening to the others’ conversation. It was an unusually warm February day, and they were studying in Combeferre’s apartment. Though, as it normally did, that plan had derailed for everyone except Combeferre.

“Probably,” said Enjolras. He frowned at his laptop and the article that held his attention. “What am I agreeing to?” 

“That Combeferre is the wisest and kindest of all of us.” 

Combeferre elbowed Courfeyrac, looking as if he thought he should be offended but couldn’t be sure why.

“Oh, yes. Definitely.” Enjolras looked up again and gestured at his laptop. “There’s a big march tomorrow. Against the marriage equality law.” 

“Well it won’t be the first one,” said Courfeyrac, breaking the silence first. His voice was uncharacteristically tight. “Probably not the last either.”

“Is there going to be a counter protest?” asked Jehan. His smile had faded as well. 

“I don’t know.” Enjolras shut his laptop with a hard click. “It’s ridiculous. People are angry about _this_ , and not austerity? Their bigotry is blinding them to the real issues. This is a sham. The government’s only expanding marriage rights because they want to mollify the left.” 

Jehan and Courfeyrac nodded their agreement. Combeferre took his glasses off and cleaned them with the hem of his shirt. 

“They’re bigoted, yes,” he said slowly, not looking at Enjolras. “But they’re scared, too. They need to be educated.” 

“Do you really think education will work?” asked Enjolras skeptically. 

Combeferre shrugged. He looked suddenly tired. “I believe it will. I have to believe it will.” 

Enjolras stood and frowned at Combeferre. “And what if they’re willfully ignorant?” 

Combeferre didn’t reply, and Enjolras pulled on his coat and moved towards the door. 

“Where are you going?” asked Jehan.

“I’m going to see Lamarque. I want to hear what she’s doing about this.” 

***

Lamarque, somewhat surprisingly, was available to meet with him. 

“I’ve heard about the march, yes,” she said calmly when he brought them up. “And all the ones before that. Of course I have.” 

“We should do something about them! One-fifth of France’s youth are unemployed, and ‘preserving the sanctity of marriage’ is the issue that hundreds of thousands of people go into the streets for? People are comparing _this_ to 1968!” 

“And what should we do, Enjolras?” asked Lamarque, with the same infuriating calm. She smiled thinly. “Tell them they’re caring about the wrong thing and they should really be protesting unemployment? People know there are no jobs, and they generally don’t appreciate being patronized to like that.”

“It’s not patronizing; it’s common sense.” 

“You can be angry about being poor and angry about same-sex marriage at the same time,” said Lamarque, tracing an idle finger across the laminate of the table they sat at. “And many people feel like they can do something about the latter.” 

“Well they’re angry about the wrong thing!” 

The calm dropped from Lamarque’s face, and her eyes became hooded and intense. 

“There is an anger in this country, Enjolras. And it’s growing. It’s growing all over the world. No, the people aren’t rallying around the causes we would like them to, but these angers bleed into each other. Those people out in the street? They are angry the world is changing so fast. They are scared about their future. They are facing economic and social uncertainty. This anger, this uncertainty, can be directed. All revolutionaries find themselves with strange bedfellows.” 

“That’s a betrayal of our ideals,” said Enjolras firmly. His fists were clenched.

Lamarque was quiet for a long moment, her body still. 

“Any revolution – any massive social reform,” she began slowly, “requires the working classes and the poor to work with the students. You, Enjolras, it is your job to rouse the students. That is what you should do.”

“And what if the students care about equality? What if they’re angry about the church? About these marches? What common ground then?” 

“There’s common ground, Enjolras, you just have to find it.” Her face softened as she looked him over. 

“I understand your anger. We want everyone to believe as we do. But if we only worked with people who believed like we do, there would only be a few of us. We would accomplish nothing.”

“But that doesn’t mean we should abandon our ideals.”

“No, but sometimes those ideals have to get off their pedestals and fight in the mud. We challenge our allies when we can, fight them we have to.” Lamarque shrugged and stood. She turned away from him and gazed out the window at the quiet street. 

Enjolras left soon afterwards, deeply unsatisfied and understanding he had been dismissed. It had hardly been the radical stand he wanted. There was nothing pure about politics or bargaining, and he could see no good from leaving others behind. He felt tense as he walked back towards campus, his shoulders and spine two sharp, angry lines. 

“Enjolras!” said a bright voice suddenly, scattering his thoughts. “I thought that was you!” 

Enjolras looked up, startled, and Cosette, beaming, caught his hand and squeezed it. 

“Are you all right? You look concerned.”

“Hello, Cosette.” Enjolras forced a smile and squeezed her hand back. “How are you?”

“Well. I’ve just come back from Marius’s. And yourself?” Cosette dropped into step with him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright.

Enjolras shrugged. “I’ve just come back from a meeting with Lamarque.” And then, because he found in Cossette a sympathetic listener, he told her the meat of their conversation. 

Cosette was quiet after he finished, though she had murmured her agreement with him throughout. Her face had turned downcast over the course of his story. After a moment, she said, “I think it’s time you met my father.”

***

Cosette and her father lived in a small, neat house down on a tucked away side street. If Monsieur Fauchevelent was surprised to see Enjolras, he didn’t express it as he opened the door. He was a dark-skinned man, who, despite his age, still had the strength and appearance of a bull. His hand eclipsed Enjolras’s when they shook each other’s, and his grip was firm. 

“Enjolras?” he said. “One of Marius’s friends, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“Ah,” Enjolras recalled the laughter over Marius’s poem that morning and felt a sudden spasm of embarrassment. Courfeyrac had meant it kindly, he was sure, but Combeferre had been right to put a stop to it. “Yes. One of Marius’s friends.”

Fauchelevent smiled faintly. “I hear you’re quite the firebrand.” He pulled a chair from the table as Cosette and Enjolras followed him into the dining room. “Come, sit down.” 

Enjolras sat. “I’ve been accused of such things before.” 

Cosette sat across from Enjolras and smiled at her father. “He’s just very passionate, Papa, and an excellent speaker.” 

“Cosette’s very kind,” said Enjolras mildly. “I’m involved with one of the activist organizations on campus.”

“I heard you were the leader.” 

“We don’t have leaders,” said Enjolras firmly. “We’re horizontalists. Everything we do as a group is decided by consensus.” 

“So tyranny of the majority,” said Fauchelevent. He hid his smile behind his hand, but his voice was kind, and Enjolras knew he wasn’t being mocked. 

“Perhaps,” allowed Enjolras. “Though we tend to attract people who are likeminded politically, so there’s rarely too much argument on the major points.” 

“That can be dangerous.” 

Enjolras lifted his head and frowned at Fauchelevent. “It can, but we believe in our principles. There can be no debate on those.” 

“But what about when your principles conflict with each other?”

“Papa,” said Cosette warningly. “Be nice.”

“It’s fine,” laughed Enjolras. “I can defend myself. This is a warmer reception than I normally receive from my friends’ parents.” He nodded at Fauchelevent. “Do you have an example?”

“Well, what about when democracy interferes with equality, with fairness?” 

“Such as the anti-equality marches,” supplied Enjolras. 

Fauchelevent nodded. “History is filled with similar examples.” 

Enjolras turned serious. 

“We can have democracy only because we believe every man to be our brother, for every person to be equal. To deny that equality to our fellow man is therefore to undermine democracy itself. Equality must be the more important principle, because it is what allows us to believe in democracy in the first place. Otherwise, democracy strikes at its own base.”

“A very eloquent answer,” said Fauchelevent, smiling still wider. “I have to ask though, out of curiosity: what kind of world do you want? What is it you fight for?” asked Cosette’s father.

Enjolras drew himself up. “A better world,” he said firmly. “A just one.”

Cosette’s father touched his hand and gave him a look of incredible gentleness. “Young man,” he said. “I’ve had quite enough of justice to last me a lifetime. Why not a more merciful world?” 

Enjolras stared at him unhappily. “But how do you make a better world with people who are so hateful? How do you keep from just remaking the same world over again?” 

Fauchelevent smiled sadly. “Now that I don’t know. It’s for young people like you and my dear Cosette to figure out.” He leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped together. “But compassion, a moment of mercy – these can cause great change. No man is beyond redemption.” 

***

“Papa was in prison when he was younger,” said Cosette quietly, at the end of the evening as she walked him to the door. 

Enjolras looked at her in surprise, and she didn’t meet his eyes as she continued. 

“He doesn’t like to talk about it – I actually found out about it by researching him online.” She laughed softly. “I always knew he was hiding something about his past. But he’s turned his life around, he’s made something of it. He’s a good father, Enjolras, and a good man.” 

“What was he in prison for?” 

“Breaking and entering, and then violating the terms of his parole.” 

Enjolras sighed. “Cosette, I understand what you’re trying to say, but I can’t say what your father did was wrong or that he needed redemption.” He wrinkled his nose. “That’s a terrible word, redemption. Who determines that?” 

Cosette smiled and patted his arm. “Clearly you think someone does, or you wouldn’t have such strong opinions on right and wrong.”

Enjolras laughed. “I suppose you’re right. Thank you to you and your father for dinner. You’ve given me a lot to think about.” 

“Oh no!” said Cosette teasingly. “That’s the last thing you needed.” 

***

Enjolras’s better spirits faded as he walked. He was irritated again. He had a driving need to always be at the center of any controversy, any conflict. He had come no closer to that center over the course of his day, only misdirections and elisions. He realized as he walked he would get no better sense of what was to be done, of who was being affected without going to the source. 

There was a bar Courfeyrac, who loved everyone and went everywhere, had mentioned once or twice, and it was not far out of Enjolras’s way as he walked back towards his apartment. He paused at the cross-street he would have to take, and then took the turn decisively. 

The bar was dimly lit in the way most bars were, and something American and loud was playing. There was little to distinguish it from almost any other bar, except for the heavy tilt towards male clientele. There were a few women, mainly in pairs and small groups, but everyone else was a man – men in tight jeans and shirts, men dancing in the back room, grinding against each other and then disappearing together out the back.

Enjolras shoved his way to the bar and ordered water, oblivious to the bartender’s dry look. He turned, resting his elbow against the bar, and surveyed the bar. It was crowded, but not as crowded as he would have expected, and what conversation he heard was just chatter – small talk and flirtations and greetings bellowed over the music or in drunken exuberance. 

Someone touched his wrist, and Enjolras looked up, startled. The man had a nice smile and dark hair, and he kept his hand on Enjolras’s wrist as he spoke. 

“I haven't seen you here before. Can I buy you a drink?"

Enjolras tried to think about what Courfeyrac would do, but he had none of his friend's ease with people. He knew he was being hit on, and he wasn't here for that. He wanted to hear the opinion of someone who was affected by the marches, but, at that moment, looking at the man's bright eyes and fading smile, it felt like a tremendous imposition, to walk into someone's space and demand they tell him what it felt like to be hated. 

He let the man continue to touch his hand. The whole day, the issues he had been dealing with had felt abstract, important, but abstract. But, here, in the bar, with the music thumping through the floor, against the heels, and the man’s dark curls hanging over his eyes, Enjolras thought perhaps he was wrong. He thought, suddenly, and randomly, of Grantaire, and blushed, off-kilter.

The man saw his blush and interpreted it as interest. 

"Well?" he asked. " _Would_ you like a drink?"   
"I'm fine, but thank you," said Enjolras, then, boldly, he said, "But that's not really what you wanted to ask."

The man looked surprised, but then smiled. 

“I was leading up to that part,” he said. He raised his eyebrows. “But in that case, would you like to get out of here?” 

Enjolras nodded. It would be easier, he told himself, to talk to someone away from the music. 

Outside, the man hailed a taxi, and Enjolras realized he’d never got his name. He felt ridiculous. He was doing this because he felt poorly and because he denied himself the usual outlets for stress. He already knew this wouldn't make him feel better.

His unease heightened as they got to the man's apartment. Enjolras thought about asking him his name after they walked up the stairs, but at that point it felt too late. He had committed to this course of action. 

They spoke briefly in the cab. Just long enough for Enjolras to learn his name – Julian – and his job – he worked in a bank – and for him to smirk when Enjolras told him he was a student. In the cab, Enjolras could see he was a little older than he’d originally assumed, closer to thirty than to twenty. 

Julian's apartment was stark and modern, empty of adornment, but in a way that struck Enjolras more as a matter of affectation than disinterest. He turned after they entered, to lock the door, and when he was done, suddenly Enjolras was trapped between him and the door. 

“I’m glad you came over,” said Julian, breath hot and moist against Enjolras’s face. He was very close. 

He touched Enjolras’s chest, and Enjolras stiffened. His hands dropped to Enjolras’s belt and he began to undo it. Panic broke in Enjolras’s chest. There were no bookshelves in the man’s apartment, he realized. 

“I should go,” he said, shoving at Julian’s hands and jerking away. His back thumped against the door.

The man froze, lips parted and hands hanging in the air. Enjolras quickly redid his belt. 

“What – ”

“This was a mistake,” said Enjolras firmly. He undid the locks quickly, quietly grateful that his panic hadn’t made him clumsy, and fled into the hallway before Julian could say anything. 

He rushed back out into the street and sucked in great breaths of air. His head swam and his heart was beating hard. He was a fool, he berated himself. He had been a fool from the beginning. 

He was far from his apartment, and he didn’t know the nearest Metro stop. But he was glad for it. He needed to burn off his energy and his confusion, to take in the night air, cold and metallic and searing. 

There was a part of him that longed for the clarity of violence, to take all the frustrations of the day and force them out, or to strike at their source and destroy them.

He slammed his fist into a wall running along the street. It was an impulsive gesture, a meaningless one, and pain flared along his hand. He hissed quietly, but in satisfaction, and when he looked at his hand beneath the haloed light of the streetlamp, he saw he’d cut it against the rough brick of the wall, a dark line of blood swelling just below his second knuckle of his middle finger. 

He stood there for a moment, breathing hard and looking at his hand, pain still sending pleasant throbs up through his wrist and arm. He felt calmer, contemplative. It was a long walk home, and a longer walk to where he really wanted to go. Grantaire had hung above him like the moon since he’d entered the bar, mocking Enjolras for his foolishness. 

He thought it might help to face Grantaire directly.

***

Grantaire was slumped over on the couch when Enjolras found him. An open bottle of vodka was near his foot, and Enjolras picked it up and capped it, then placed it aside before touching Grantaire’s shoulder. 

“Grantaire,” he said. He shook Grantaire’s shoulder. “ _R_.” 

Grantaire bolted upright and looked at him wildly. “What did you call me?” he demanded. 

“Your name.” Enjolras paused. “R.” 

Grantaire licked his lips. The whites of his eyes were very wide. “You’ve never called me that before,” he said, almost accusingly.

“Ah. Well. It always seemed overly familiar,” replied Enjolras stiffly. He drew away, surprised by Grantaire’s intensity so soon after being woken up. “But it’s what you prefer, so I should call you that.”

Grantaire rubbed at his face. The tense wire in his shoulders went slack. 

“How surprisingly observant of you.” His expression grew curious. “And what are you doing here?”

“The door was unlocked,” said Enjolras. He sat next to Grantaire, suddenly embarrassed to say what had happened.

“That only explains how you got in.”

Enjolras made a face. “I’ve had a very long day.” 

“So you’ve decided to prolong the torment by coming to see me? I never pegged you for a masochist.” 

Enjolras looked at him. 

“I wanted to talk to you.” 

He realized then that he should have gone to Grantaire’s in the first place. 

Grantaire’s mouth half-opened, and Enjolras could already see the sarcastic remark, ready-formed and springing, and then Grantaire frowned and he jerked forward, grabbing Enjolras’s hand.  
“Why is your hand cut?” he demanded.

Enjolras jerked his hand away. 

“I hit a wall.”

“A wall? As in a literal wall? You literally hit your hand against a wall.”

“Have you forgotten you speak French? That’s what I said.”

Grantaire sat back, eyes wide with surprise. 

“I suppose that makes sense,” he said slowly. “Nothing’s more totalitarian than a wall. And it’s about as effective as anything else you do.” 

“Careful or I’ll hit you next,” snapped Enjolras. He felt sullen and childlike. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to, and it was one that he liked even less. 

Grantaire snorted. “I certainly deserve it more than the wall.” He caught Enjolras’s hand again and examined the cut. It stung, but was shallow. Enjolras didn’t understand why Grantaire felt it due so much attention. 

“What did the wall do anyway?” 

“Nothing. Obviously,” said Enjolras tightly. He paused, and then added carefully. “I met someone at a bar and went home with him. But then I panicked, and I left.”

It took Grantaire a moment to absorb what Enjolras had said.

“You were going to sleep with someone?”

“I was thinking about it, yes.” 

“But you panicked instead.” 

“That’s what I said.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No! I just panicked. I’ve never –” he scowled. “As you’re aware, I’ve never been in that situation before.” 

Grantaire blinked at him, and then shook himself. 

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with, uh, being a virgin, right?” Grantaire looked vaguely disgusted and uncomfortable with his own sincerity, but Enjolras could tell he did mean it sincerely.

“I don’t really need your affirmation, Grantaire.”

Grantaire snorted, but he seemed relieved they’d stepped back from the precipice of sentimentality. 

“So what was so terrible about this guy that you panicked so badly? Did he have a third nipple?” 

“Nothing like that!” he snapped. “He just,” he grimaced, “he didn’t own any books.” 

Grantaire raised his eyebrows and repeated slowly. “He didn’t own any books?” 

“His apartment was completely bare of them, yes.”

“I can’t say I disagree with your course of action. Owning no books is definitely a reason to punch a wall,” said Grantaire – very dryly. He was obviously fighting a smile. He took Enjolras’s wrist again and gently pulled him towards the bathroom.

Enjolras shrugged. “It was a long day, like I said. I was frustrated.” 

“Thus the shout into the void.” 

Enjolras’s shoulders sagged. “I feel terrible,” he confessed.

“Understandably. That was a very poor move for a pacifist. The poor wall.” Grantaire led Enjolras towards the bathroom and quickly found some gauze from beneath the sink. 

Enjolras wrinkled his nose. “I’ve never claimed to be a pacifist.” 

“Oh no, of course not. My mistake. I must be drunk during all the meetings you advocate violence as a means of social change.” 

Grantaire turned the tap on and pulled Enjolras’s hand beneath it to wash out the cut. 

“You’re drunk at all the meetings.” 

“Ah, the expected retort.” Grantaire smirked at him as he grabbed a towel and patted Enjolras’s hand dry. “I’ll chalk it up to you having a very long day.”

“You’re too kind,” muttered Enjolras as Grantaire took some gauze from beneath the sink. “Is this really necessary?”

Grantaire ignored the question. He wrapped the gauze around Enjolras’s hand twice and then leaned forward and bit the gauze to tear it. His eyes met Enjolras’s, and Enjolras looked away first, flushing. The bathroom was small, and they were standing very close together. Grantaire leaned forward slightly, so that his hands rested against the sink and framed Enjolras’s hips. 

“You called me R earlier.” 

“I did.” 

Grantaire smiled, huge and genuine, and he pulled away. 

“Follow me. I want to show you something.”

Enjolras followed Grantaire warily, and Grantaire took Enjolras to his room. It was a small space, and crammed with _things_ – a bed, a desk covered with papers and clothes and empty bottles, an overstuffed chair, and dozens of art works in varying media and varying states of completion. Grantaire booted aside a pile of laundry as he walked to his bed. Enjolras stood in the doorway and watched. It felt overly intimate to follow Grantaire into his room, even though only a month ago Grantaire had slept in Enjolras’s bed.

“You don’t have any books,” noted Enjolras with surprise.

Grantaire lifted his eyebrows. Casually, he lifted up a corner of his comforter and kicked out a pile of books from beneath his bed. They spilled out across the floor, cheap paperbacks and hardbacks missing their sleeves, a few comics. Enjolras looked at the books, and then, slowly, he looked at Grantaire. 

“Bookshelves take up too much wall space,” said Grantaire. He raised an eyebrow at Enjolras. “Perhaps you should look more closely next time, hm?” He paused and pursed his mouth thoughtfully. “Or I could have had a Kindle.” 

Enjolras burst into laughter. 

“It’s comforting to know you’re also human,” said Grantaire. He cocked his head. “And you can come in. I promise there’s nothing in here that’s going to attack you.”

“In my defense, he _was_ a banker too.” 

Grantaire tilted his head. “Is that in defense of you going home with him, or in defense of you running away?”

“In defense of running away. I went home with him. I kept thinking I was going to ask him about the marriage protests. I wanted to know how the people most affected by the issue felt,” said Enjolras. He walked into the room, carefully avoiding stepping on any of Grantaire’s belongings, and sat tentatively on the edge of his bed. 

“But you punched a wall instead. Excellent investigative work. Great dedication to your research.” 

Enjolras rubbed at the edge of the gauze, ignoring Grantaire’s sarcasm. 

“Well what do you think about it?” 

Grantaire laughed. “The protesters, you mean? They’re frightened bigots. Their children might be better, but they probably won’t be. They’ll likely be just as scared of something else.”

“I won’t believe that,” said Enjolras quickly. “I can’t believe that. People are better than that. 

Grantaire looked at the pile of books spilled out on the floor. 

“I would’ve thought you’d just call gay marriage a bourgeois betrayal of revolutionary ideals or something like that,” he said. 

Enjolras made a face. “Am I really that much of a cliché?” 

The corner of Grantaire’s mouth quirked up. 

“Sometimes.”

Enjolras sighed. “It is. Bourgeois, I mean. But, it’s fair. As long as there is a state, people should be treated equally by it. And this, the protests, they aren’t really about marriage. They’re about treating people as lesser. The protesters are cruel. But they can be better. Everyone has it in them to be better.” 

“I like that you think that,” said Grantaire. “And not just that you think that, but that you do something about it too.” He shrugged. “It’s probably meaningless, but it means something anyway. That you try. To me at least. It means something to me.” 

Enjolras laughed loudly, almost hysterically, long enough and hard enough that his stomach began to hurt. He leaned over on Grantaire’s bed, clutching at his knees. 

“Why are you laughing?” said Grantaire, disgruntled. “That was heartfelt!” 

“Nothing,” said Enjolras, smiling. “Thank you. That made me feel better.” 

Grantaire looked stricken. 

“It did? I made you feel better? _That_ made you feel better?”

Enjolras smiled wider. His face was beginning to hurt, and he thought he might start laughing again. 

“I know,” he said. “I’m shocked too.” 

Grantaire gave him a look like a cat that had had the door shut on it. 

“Anything for the cause,” he said dryly.

Enjolras laid back on the bed, arms stretching out behind him, and vaguely aware of Grantaire watching him. Exhaustion was settling on him swiftly and heavily, and Grantaire’s bed was much more comfortable in his own. He knew he was in danger of falling asleep, and knew equally it would be ridiculous to fall asleep here. 

“Can I sleep on your couch?” he asked, impulsively.

“Take the bed,” said Granatire, voice oddly thick. 

Enjolras lifted his head slightly to look at him; Grantaire was standing stock-still at the edge of the bed, shoulders drawn high and hands half-clenched at his sides. He was looking at Enjolras like he didn’t believe he existed. 

“I wouldn’t want to do that to you,” said Enjolras. “The couch is fine.” 

Grantaire’s eyes flickered to his face and he laughed, a small, choked noise, and ran his hands through his hair in a frantic motion. 

“It’s fine, really. I like the couch. I would have spent the night there anyway if you hadn’t woken me up.”

Enjolras sighed, collapsing back onto the bed. For once in his life, he was no mood to argue with Grantaire. 

“Fair enough,” he said. 

Grantaire laughed again, still the strange, thick sound. 

“Why did you come here?” he asked. “Really?” 

Enjolras closed his eyes, the sweet, dense darkness of sleep tugging at the center of him. 

“I don’t know,” he said, the words coming out from him as if from very far away. “I was confused. And I guess to know where you are you have to know what you’re in opposition to.”

This time, when Grantaire laughed, it was his normal laugh, loud and sharp and mocking. 

“You make speeches even in your sleep,” he said, and Enjolras felt his hands brush against his ankle.

“Get some sleep,” added Grantaire softly, and Enjolras did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the interest of getting this posted and scurrying away, there won't be that many links. But, quickly, here's [a short article on France's youth unemployment](http://www.policymic.com/articles/52911/millennial-unemployment-reaches-20-percent-in-france-is-there-hope-for-the-jobless-youth). Good context; not sure I agree with the takeaway. And here are a few articles on the marriage protests: [(1)](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.cnn.com%2F2013%2F01%2F13%2Fworld%2Feurope%2Ffrance-marriage-rights-protest&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNGoWG73fLR9kU5yFsYyJmpIEC1pIg), [(2)](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.huffingtonpost.com%2Fsalim-lamrani%2Ffrance-chooses-the-path-o_b_2410373.html&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNHZQ9bqnGLhkyjYjdbCTnbeoXYW0A), [(3)](http://www.presstv.com/detail/2013/02/03/287014/french-protest-gay-marriage-bill/).
> 
> And here's a link to [an interesting book](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=3&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CDsQFjAC&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.amazon.com%2FWhy-Its-Kicking-Off-Everywhere%2Fdp%2F1844678512&ei=tRpCU73lLu6uyAGc9oGYBg&usg=AFQjCNHE9X4LG2Sxq370vDSE_8VL_c-cQg&sig2=vkbRUvrdBqlUWmnziB6GXw&bvm=bv.64125504,d.aWc) I read this summer which some of you may also find interesting. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much to Sam, for the hand-holding, the cheerleading, and the characterization and plotting help.


	7. March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not dead! Still working on this! Thank you to everyone who's still reading.
> 
> And thanks to familiardevil, for providing some of Grantaire's dialogue. 
> 
> Also: I spent a lot of time debating between using "football" and "soccer." But I'm American and soccer won out.

“I just don’t understand the point of it,” said Enjolras dubiously. He was sitting at a crowded table in a packed bar. All around them, televisions were lit up with the pre-show for a World Cup qualifying match between Spain and France. A diagram of expected line ups for both teams flashed on the screen, and Enjolras stared at it, mystified. 

“It's poetry, Enjolras,” explained Jehan, face shining. “It's suffering, and it's ecstasy. It’s a way to feel at once more human and more than human – to be caught in the sweep of grand human emotions.”

“It’s also a lot of fun,” added Courfeyrac, cutting off Jehan’s flow of words as he placed another pitcher down on the table “And after Spain blew it in Finland, we have a decent chance of staying on top of the group.” 

Enjolras remained unconvinced. But he sipped at his water and said nothing. 

The bar got progressively more crowded and exponentially louder. Enjolras shifted in order to give Bahorel more space and ended up with his shoulder pressed firmly into Grantaire’s. He ignored the proximity. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he could make out Grantaire’s smirk. 

“Too bad Enjolras doesn’t believe in fun,” said Grantaire, low-voiced enough that only Enjolras could hear him, though, to Enjolras, it sounded as if he were speaking to himself. 

“Where’s Combeferre?” he asked the table, deciding to ignore Grantaire’s comment. He wrinkled his nose; he almost had to shout to be heard.

“Doing something boring,” said Courfeyrac, returning with the drinks. He rested his head on the table and stared gloomily up at Enjolras. “He laughed when I asked him if he wanted to come.” 

“And I wasn’t given the same option?” 

He had, in fact, been rather unceremoniously woken up from his nap on Combeferre’s couch by Bahorel and Jehan, and told he was going to take a break from work and come out with them. They had ignored his protests that, by taking a nap, he was in fact not working. 

Jehan grinned at him mischievously. “Courfeyrac’s just more polite than we are.”

“Or Combeferre’s just more frightening than Enjolras!” said Courfeyrac, clearly offended by his implied civility. “He was reading about _artillery_ again. Can you believe it? I think it makes his aim better.”

Privately, Enjolras thought that reading about artillery sounded like more fun than watching a soccer match. 

“You’re not being fair, Enjolras!” chided Grantaire, as if he could read Enjolras’s mind. “You slave to give the people their bread, but you’ll deny them their circus?” 

“It’s fine for other people to _enjoy_ it!” said Enjolras. “I just don’t.” 

“But it gives you such a wonderful opportunity to root for France!” insisted Grantaire. “What could be more French than Les Bleus? What symbolism could possibly be more fitting for our great nation than their total capitulation in South Africa?”

Grantaire’s invocation of South Africa was met with groans and murmurs of dismay. Bahorel looked almost murderous. Grantaire grinned ghoulishly in response, having provoked some reaction, even if Enjolras remained calm. 

“There’s a bright line between jingoism and patriotism,” said Enjolras carefully. “In my experience, international sporting events tend more towards the former than the latter.” 

“Sure, it’s sublimated warfare. But isn’t that what you want? Instead of real war, we have the World Cup, the Olympics. We have peace. 2012, Germany crushes Greece with their finely-tuned machine of a team rather than their tanks.”

“Of course,” said Enjolras. He sipped his water again. “In the future, we’ll solve all our disputes through sport.” He added dryly, “And sacrifice the losing side to a volcano.” 

“Don’t,” said Bahorel wearily. “Please, Grantaire, I beg you. If you get him started, it’s going to be all _neoliberalism_ this and _the exploitation of the working class by transnational entities such as FIFA and the IOC_ that and not to mention how these events _further strengthene an increasingly Orwellian security apparatus_. Not today. Today, I just want to enjoy the game.” 

Enjolras hummed innocently. 

“This is why God forbade Adam to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge,” said Grantaire, ostentatiously philosophical. He gestured grandly with his glass, splashing beer on the table and Enjolras’s jacket. “Because it makes life no fucking fun.” 

“Quiet, all of you!” snapped Courfeyrac. “It’s starting.” 

As one, the table’s attention broke to the nearest screen. Enjolras had to crane his neck to see, curious in spite of himself. 

It was not, even by Enjolras’s limited experience and understanding, a very exciting game. But he did have to grudgingly admit that Jehan had a point – there was something about the ripple of emotions through the crowd that was infectious. The first half passed pleasantly enough even if, at the half, the game was scoreless.  
“I thought there were supposed to be goals in this game,” he said casually. 

Bahorel, Courfeyrac, and Jehan all began to talk at once. 

“It’s all because we’re playing fucking _Spain_ ; surely even you know that much about their reputation, Enjolras!” 

“Soccer’s about more than just goals! It’s about the movement of the ball and the players on the field – the elegance and strategy, the ever-shifting tactics!” 

“Well if Benzema could hit the broad fucking side of a barn it wouldn’t be scoreless!” 

Enjolras started to laugh, and next to him, so did Grantaire. 

“He is, I believe, baiting you,” explained Grantaire, to the other three’s confused looks. He slid a smile at Enjolras. “I didn’t know our fearless leader had it in him.” 

“Well, sometimes I think you don’t know me very well at all, Grantaire,” said Enjolras evenly. He smiled at Courfeyrac, who had started to laugh as well. 

“I’m going to get another pitcher,” said Courfeyrac, still shaking his head appreciatively as he rode. “Try not to give Jehan and Bahorel a heart attack while I’m gone.”

The rest of halftime passed with Jehan earnestly trying to give Enjolras an overview of different playing styles and strategies. Enjolras attempted to listen, but his attention kept sliding away, and he was grateful when the second half started. 

Fifteen minutes in, he surprised himself by joining in the shout of panic then the yell as a Spaniard slid the ball in and scored, the French goalkeeper tumbling back ineffectually into the net. 

The bar deflated. Courfeyrac’s hands were in his hair, expression aghast. Jehan had covered his mouth, and Bahorel was on his feet, large hands gripping his glass tightly as he looked to the heavens in despair.

Grantaire was laughing. Enjolras nudged him sharply in the side. They were getting glares, and there were certain fights Enjolras was not willing to partake in. 

The goal sucked out much of the bar’s energy for the next twenty minutes; though Bahorel remained white-knuckled throughout, eyes fixed on the screen as fervently as a supplicant’s at the cross. Though a late red card – and Enjolras did not have the heart to blithely ask what that meant – saw a French player off the field and then a renewed French assault. 

Still, the score stood, and the game ended with much of the bar slouched in postures of defeat. 

“One-oh,” said Bahorel, face in his hands. “Of course it was one-oh. That’s the only fucking score the Spaniards ever fucking win by.” 

“To be expected probably,” said Courfeyrac mournfully. He patted Bahorel on the back in consolation. “But we showed loads of promise! And we’ll be sure to make it through the play-off if it comes to that.” 

Jehan nodded in agreement. “Did you see Pogba take the ball off Iniesta? He was great until, well, he got sent off.”

“And then Ribery nearly had the equalizer anyway,” said Courfeyrac. He gazed at the remnants of his beer contemplatively. “We lost by inches.” 

Grantaire snorted. “Of course. That’s the way of it. The soccer gods didn’t will France to win, and so it wasn’t to be.”

“The soccer gods?” laughed Enjolras incredulously. “You believe in no such thing.”

“Of course I believe in them!” said Grantaire. “Gods could only care about something so petty and meaningless. Otherwise, a god would have to be evil, no?” 

“Always so cynical, Grantaire,” said Courfeyrac. He swung his arm around Jehan. “But I think Master Prouvaire has a point. Pogba was brilliant in parts. Though, honestly, I think we did play better after he got sent off.”

The talk seemed to summon Bahorel out of his gloom, and he joined in the conversation eagerly, spinning out names and observations beyond Enjolras’s ability to follow. But Courfeyrac and Jehan both listened intently, interjecting with their own comments as he spoke.

“Come on,” said Grantaire suddenly. He gripped Enjolras’s arm just above the elbow. 

“What?” said Enjolras. 

“You’re bored,” explained Grantaire loftily. “So I’m rescuing you.” 

He stood up and pulled Enjolras up as well. He was in high spirits despite the loss, face ruddy and eyes flashing, sporting a broad grin. In fact, Enjolras suspected Grantaire would have been less happy with a win, such was his nature. 

“Until we meet again,” Grantaire told the rest of the table solemnly. “Thank you for the lovely evening.” 

Bahorel, Courfeyrac, and Jehan gave distracted good-byes in response. They were hunched around a diagram of salt packets Bahorel had put together. 

Grantaire laughed and pulled Enjolras out of the bar. He let go once they were outside, but walked quickly, and Enjolras had to hurry to keep up. 

“Where are we going?” he demanded, resigned to the fact that he would be accompanying Grantaire on whatever mad errand he was on. Grantaire was right; Enjolras had been bored. 

There was a fine, misty rain falling, the kind of rain that seemed to come from everywhere, that made umbrellas useless and sunk deep into people’s skin.

“I’m getting another tattoo,” said Grantaire cheerfully. They passed under a streetlamp and the yellow light caught Grantaire’s profile and threw it into sharp relief, the raindrops in his hair and on his eyelashes winking brightly for a second. There were times, like now, when Grantaire seemed a little dangerous, fey and dark and wild, and as if he were connected to human life only tenuously, and only because it amused him for the moment. 

Enjolras bit his lip. 

“And you needed me for company?” 

Grantaire shrugged. “Who else is sober enough to see me home?”

Enjolras eyed him. “Are you sober enough to be getting a tattoo in the first place?” 

Grantaire bowed, suddenly and sweepingly, forcing Enjolras to hop back a step as Grantaire bent low in front of him. 

“I am no less drunk and no more sober than I usually am,” he said, straightening up. He smiled. “And slightly drunk is the best time to get a tattoo. As with most things in life, the drink dulls the pain.” 

Enjolras looked at him and said nothing. But he didn’t try to dissuade Grantaire either. After a moment, Grantaire shrugged and resumed walking. Enjolras followed him. He wasn’t sure how far they would be walking, and the night was growing cooler, the rain more persistent. But there were times when being with Grantaire gave Enjolras a similar crackling energy to that he felt at a protest or a march. It was a sense of being at the edge of a very deep precipice. 

They walked in silence for a while more, and then Enjolras broke it, and asked, “What are you planning on getting?” 

“Just a word. Nothing very complex. I’ve been considering it for a while.” 

“Any word in particular? Or will you just spontaneously decide once we’re there?” 

“Why? Do you have a suggestion?” 

“The word ‘ass’ comes to mind.” 

Grantaire threw his head back and laughed, loud and violent enough to make two women walking towards them clutch at each other and cross the street with haste. 

“Tourists,” Grantaire spat after them. “They come here, and they eat everything, and they touch everything, and they look at everything. A whole city, just here for them to gobble up.” 

Enjolras waited for the rant to pass, used to Grantaire’s shifting moods, and when Grantaire had lapsed into silence once more, he said, “But you still haven’t told me what you’re getting.” 

Grantaire looked at him sideways, a considering gleam to his eyes as if he were measuring Enjolras, summing him up. Enjolras wondered what he was getting measured against. 

“Beauty,” he said finally. “To match.” 

He tapped his forearm, where Enjolras knew he had a tattoo that simply read ‘terror.’ 

“Terror and beauty, then,” said Enjolras. 

“Yes,” said Grantaire. He looked up, as if there were something to be seen in the sky beyond the heavy clouds, orange from the refracted city light. “They’re good reminders.” 

“Of?” 

Grantaire shrugged, still looking into the clouds. “For life, my friend.” 

Enjolras nodded. He thought of Grantaire’s other tattoos – the outline of France hidden inside his mouth, the skeleton on his back.

“Terror and beauty and France and death,” he mused. “Very poetic. I’m sure Jehan would appreciate it. You should have asked him along.”

Grantaire flashed him a wild grin. “Well, I have quite the source of inspiration.” 

“And that is?” 

“You, of course.”

Enjolras scoffed. “You had some of those before you’d ever met me.” 

Grantaire shrugged expansively. “Ah! But they have taken on new life.” His grin became hard-edged and slightly mocking. “But France and beauty did come after you. A whole two hours spent contemplating your profile? How could I not get a tattoo of beauty? And how do you know I didn’t meet you before I met you? Perhaps I dreamed about you.” 

Enjolras snorted, but he felt strained and tense, still never sure quite what Grantaire meant with his flattery, if he was mocking or sincere. 

“You’re starting to sound like Marius.” 

“There are worse fates.” 

“The guillotine, I suppose.” 

Grantaire laughed, delighted. “It always amazes me that you can be so dark.” 

“I’m not a robot,” said Enjolras, feeling suddenly annoyed. He remembered Grantaire’s quiet comment at the bar, that he didn’t believe in fun. “I have a sense of humor.” 

Grantaire pinched Enjolras’s nose and winked at him. 

“And a temper to match.” 

Enjolras sputtered and Grantaire howled with laughter, though Enjolras did not think anything very funny had happened. 

“Not a robot,” he said. “Please. See how easy it was to put you on the fritz? A strong enough magnet would destroy you.” 

“So why not drag along one of your friends who’s not a robot?” snapped Enjolras. He felt a sharp stab of anger behind his rib bones. He half wanted to shove Grantaire and leave him in the gutter. He would find his way home eventually, Enjolras was sure. Grantaire had a cat’s knack that way. 

Grantaire looked at him in surprise, catching the gust of his fury. 

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, and that surprised Enjolras. Grantaire wasn’t one to apologize. “You realize that, don’t you?” 

“I know you don’t literally believe I’m a robot, yes,” said Enjolras tightly. 

Grantaire sighed. 

“There it is,” he said. He pointed at a shabby looking tattoo parlor still half a block away. “We’re almost there.” 

Enjolras glared at him, but he accepted the change of subject, and they walked the rest of the short way in tense silence.

Enjolras remained silent throughout Grantaire’s conversation with the heavily tattooed woman at the counter. He looked around instead at the designs and photographs posted all over the shop. He was surprised by the talent on display. He hadn’t expected it from the outside of the building. But trust Grantaire to know the city’s hidden treasures. 

“Are you sure you don’t want one?” asked Grantaire, cutting through Enjolras’s thoughts. The familiar, mocking edge had found its way back into his voice. “Perhaps _Liberty Leading the People_ done across your back? It would take a few sessions, of course, but what could be more apropos?”

Enjolras stared at him stonily, and Grantaire laughed. 

“Petulance is not a good look on you, Enjolras.” 

The woman looked between them; she was applying antiseptic to her hands. 

“Lover’s quarrel?” she asked. 

Grantaire laughed again. 

“Of course not, Sylvie. You know I have eyes only for you.” 

The woman – Sylvie – snorted. 

“You’re sweet talk won’t earn you a discount, you know. Now sit down and roll your sleeve up.” 

Grantaire obeyed silently, but he spared a wink for Enjolras. Enjolras raised his eyebrow and leaned against the counter. The woman began the process of tattooing Grantaire, applying antiseptic to his skin. 

Enjolras watched and surprised himself when he continued to watch as the needle was finally pressed into Grantaire’s skin and beads of blood welled up around the dark letters that began to form across Grantaire’s forearm. Until that moment, he would have expected himself to look away. Grantaire’s face looked like a mask, showing no sign of pain or emotion. His lips were stretched tightly, brow furrowed, breathing even. 

It didn’t take as much time as Enjolras thought it would.

“Isn’t it painful?” he asked, after Grantaire paid and they left the parlor. 

Grantaire shrugged. “The pain is grounding.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Should I be surprised you’re a masochist?”

Grantaire grinned. “Are you sure you’re not the masochist?” 

“And how do you suppose that?” 

“You keep me around, no? You came along tonight. Though perhaps you’re right; perhaps I am a masochist, and you keep me around to wound with your sadism.” 

Enjolras flushed angrily. “I hardly think I’m sadistic.”

“So we’re agreed then,” said Grantaire cheerfully. “You’re the masochist in this relationship.” 

“Because why have something mutually beneficial and fulfilling?” 

“There’s my idealist,” said Grantaire. He beamed fondly. He seemed very drunk, more than he had on the walk over even. 

Enjolras snorted and changed the subject. “Let’s see it then,” he said. “Your tattoo.” 

Grantaire laughed and waved his arm at Enjolras. His sleeve was rolled up to his elbow, and a wide patch of gauze was taped to his forearm. 

“There’s nothing really to see. It’s just going to be bloody for a while.” 

“Well will you let me see it when it’s healed?” 

“Why do you care so much?” 

Enjolras shrugged. 

“I like to see things through. And,” he added, with a sly, triumphant look, “you said the tattoo was for and about me. So I think I deserve to see it.” 

Something shifted in Grantaire’s face, and he stopped, turning to look at Enjolras. Enjolras stopped too and looked back at him, perplexed. The street was deserted. 

Silently, almost reverentially, Grantaire reached out and touched Enjolras’s hair. The gauze on his arm brushed Enjolras’s face. Enjolras thought he could smell the blood, coppery and bright, and knew he was being ridiculous. But it did seem as if all his senses had suddenly heightened, that he could hear, very loud and very close, the beating of his own heart. 

“What are you doing?” asked Enjolras, very still. It had been a strange night. It seemed like most of his strange nights this last year had involved Grantaire in some prominent fashion. His stomach twisted, but not with anger. He felt, again, that sense of standing on the edge of a very deep precipice.

Grantaire continued to stare at him, face sharp and hungry. Enjolras leaned back, and his shoulders hit the wall of the building behind him, the old brick pressing lightly into his back. 

Grantaire touched Enjolras’s face very lightly with his fingertips. His eyes glittered strangely, and Enjolras wondered if that was from the pain. But he was starting to feel even stranger and more lightheaded himself, and he could sense something crackling and dangerous spinning between them. 

Grantaire kissed him. A spark seemed to leap across Enjolras’s vision, which had suddenly narrowed to just Grantaire, the bridge of his nose and the line of his brow and the sweep of his lashes. He took a deep breath, half a gasp, and, recklessly, kissed Grantaire back. It seemed to last for a very long time. Neither of them moved, though Grantaire’s hand flattened against Enjolras’s face, palming his cheek. 

They stood apart finally, both breathing hard. Grantaire stared at him, eyes like lamplights, his dark hair curling wildly around his face and melting into the darkness of the night around them. 

“Enjolras,” he said. He patted Enjolras’s chest as if he couldn’t quite believe Enjolras was a solid, living thing. He seemed like he was reeling. He said his name again. “Enjolras.” 

Enjolras reached out and gripped Grantaire’s shoulder, steadying him. He felt Grantaire’s whole body shudder in response. 

“Grantaire,” he said firmly, finding his voice at last. “Let’s get you home.”

***

The next day, his thoughts were elsewhere. 

“Are you all right?” asked Combeferre, frowning at him from over a stack of newspapers. They were at their usual table at the Musain, going through the day’s news and preparing an agenda for the next meeting of Les Amis. 

Enjolras’s laptop was open in front of him, but he had not read more than the first paragraph he had open. And he realized that he had been staring over Combeferre’s shoulder for the past minute, lost in thought. 

“I’m fine,” said Enjolras. He stared harder at the article on his laptop and then looked up and frowned at Combeferre.

“You didn’t watch the match yesterday.” 

“No,” said Combeferre evenly. “But you did.” He glanced up again from his papers. “Courfeyrac told me you left with Grantaire.” 

Enjolras gave a start. 

“More like I was dragged away by him,” he said, ignoring Combeferre’s curious look. “He needed a babysitter while he got a new tattoo.”

“Ah,” said Combeferre. He ran his hand through his hair and looked out the window. “How was that?” 

“It was like any excursion with Grantaire,” said Enjolras. He wondered if Combeferre knew something. Surely Grantaire would not have gossiped so quickly? “Frustrating.” 

Combeferre smiled. “I wouldn’t really know. I don’t spend as much time alone with him as you do.” 

“To your great fortune.” Enjolras dropped his pen and looked out the window as well. It was sunny and warmer than the day before. The morning had smelled faintly of spring. He kept thinking about Grantaire, of his back pressed against the wall last night while Grantaire kissed him. He still wasn’t sure why he had kissed back, and neither he nor Grantaire had said a word the entire walk back to Grantaire’s apartment. Courfeyrac might know what it all meant, if Enjolras told him. Courfeyrac was like Grantaire – free and fleeting in his affections. 

Somehow, that thought made Enjolras feel worse. 

Combeferre raised his eyebrows, but dropped the subject of Grantaire. Instead, he handed a paper across the table. 

“Here, read this article. It’ll divert your attention.” 

“I hardly need my attention diverted,” muttered Enjolras sullenly, but he took it all the same and scanned the article quickly. Combeferre was right; it was in the student paper, some vile piece on austerity and the need for deeper cuts to hasten growth and cut the deficit, as if “growth” were itself a moral good. 

Before he could formulate a response, the door to the Musain opened and brought with it a swell of warm, springlike air and Grantaire. 

Grantaire shuffled in, hands in his pocket, looking sheepish. He went to order without a word or look at Enjolras and Combeferre. But, after getting his coffee, he lingered uncertainly by the counter, not quite looking at them.

Combeferre glanced over at him and let out a soft, “Hmm.” He began gathering his papers. 

“I just remembered,” he told Enjolras airily. “I promised Courfeyrac I’d meet him for lunch.” 

Enjolras stared at him, wanting to protest, but not finding his voice. He clutched the dreadful article in his hands, a lifeline to a moment before, when he had been distracted but not taken totally off guard. 

Combeferre smiled at him. 

“I’ll see you this evening, I’m sure. We still have to finish the agenda.” He breezed out, stopping to nod a pleasant hello to Grantaire. 

After a second, Enjolras gathered his stuff and got up as well. He marched over to Grantaire, who appeared totally petrified. 

“I – ” Enjolras frowned at him. Surely Grantaire knew there was a good chance Enjolras would be at the café. Enjolras could not understand why Grantaire was being so awkward. He doubted he was the first acquaintance Grantaire had drunkenly kissed. “Hello.” 

“Hello,” said Grantaire. He shifted his weight uneasily. 

“What are you doing here?” 

A familiar insolence flashed in Grantaire’s face but was quickly snuffed out. 

“Getting coffee,” he said, though without the bite Enjolras would have expected. 

“I see,” said Enjolras. He glanced at Grantaire’s forearm; it was covered by his sleeve. He had no idea what to say, no map for this kind of conversation, and still no real idea how he felt about what had happened the night before. 

He thought he needed to know how Grantaire felt about it, but he was unwilling to ask. 

“Would you like to go the movies?” he asked, after the moment stretched on, strained and terrible, between them. “I think I could use the distraction.”

Grantaire looked at him in surprise. 

“Sure,” he said, after a moment. It seemed like he had needed for Enjolras’s question to sink in. 

Enjolras frowned again. “What? No smart remark about how I’m allergic to the cinema?” 

Grantaire said nothing, and Enjolras sighed. 

“Well, come on then,” he said. He started walking without waiting to see if Grantaire would follow him. But a few seconds later, Grantaire caught up, brooding silently over Enjolras’s left shoulder. His hands were clasped tightly around his coffee. 

“How is your tattoo?” 

“Fine. Healing,” said Grantaire. 

Enjolras glanced at him. Grantaire was glaring at the ground, head hunched down and shoulders up. 

“What do you want to see?” he asked. 

“You’re the one who suggested the movies.” 

“Right.” Enjolras had no idea what was playing. 

There was a cinema not far from the café, and, after looking at the show times, Enjolras bought two tickets for the movie that was soonest. Grantaire remained uncharacteristically silent, and Enjolras wondered if he’d drank more than he realized the night before. But it was still unlike Grantaire to be this quiet, even when hungover. It annoyed him. Grantaire’s odd behavior was making everything more difficult for Enjolras, and he had been hoping to take his cue from him. Grantaire had been the one who initiated the kiss, after all. Enjolras felt it up to him to set things right. 

The movie was a mistake. Enjolras realized that twenty minutes when Grantaire – who, in Enjolras’s limited experience with Grantaire at the theater tended to offer a steady stream of derisive commentary – fell asleep. Enjolras couldn’t particularly blame him in this case. On the screen, the husband and wife continued to eat dinner and not talk about their deteriorating relationship. A slow rain beat on the windows behind them. 

He started turning over the article he’d read that morning in his head, finding the chinks in its argument and composing his own. It was more fulfilling than watching the movie or listening to Grantaire’s gentle snores next to him. He still felt on edge, and this, righteous anger and the well-delivered word, were at least familiar territory. Finally, another forty minutes in and with Grantaire giving no sign of waking up, he slipped out of the theater and sat at the single table near the concession stand. 

That was how Grantaire found him, an hour later, scribbling a furious rebuttal on a napkin. 

“There you are,” said Grantaire, voice and face expressionless.

Enjolras looked up at him and blushed. “You woke up. Did you catch how it ended?” 

“The wife died,” said Grantaire. “Her husband smothered her. I think. That could have been a dream sequence.” 

Enjolras frowned. “I see.” 

Grantaire continued to look down at him, still expressionless.

“Enjolras,” he said gravely. “Just because I kissed you – assaulted you, really – doesn’t mean you have to take pity on me, or whatever the hell this was.” 

“No,” said Enjolras, surprised. “What? It’s not pity.” He frowned. “You didn’t _assault_ me. And what do you think was pity?”

“Asking me to the movies?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows. 

“I wanted to,” insisted Enjolras. “I wanted to.” He pursed his mouth, and then admitted with a grimace, “I wanted to spend time with you.” 

“You wanted to spend time with me, after I…” Grantaire scrubbed at his hair and refused to meet Enjolras’s eyes.

“I thought you’d ditched me,” finished Grantaire, mumbling. 

“I didn’t. You fell asleep, and the movie was terrible” 

Grantaire laughed hoarsely. “Perhaps a movie wasn’t the best idea.” 

“Perhaps not.” 

“Though I can understand why,” added Grantaire, with a sly, mean look, “why you would want to do something that meant you didn’t have to hear me talk.”

“You’re not without your charms when you want to be,” protested Enjolras. It struck him as totally absurd – that he was defending Grantaire to himself. But he felt relieved, at least. Even if he and Grantaire had not actually _talked_ about anything, this was familiar Grantaire behavior. 

“Why do you let me stay around?” demanded Grantaire suddenly. 

Enjolras stared at him, bewildered. He had thought, for a second, they were back to normal, or at least what was normal for them. 

“What do you mean? Do I have a choice? You’re a free man.”

“Enjolras,” barked Grantaire. “Honestly. You put up with me. You let me drag you around.” 

“Because you’re confusing,” said Enjolras, bluntly. 

He didn’t add, ‘And I think about you more than is sensible.’ But the thought did occur to him and seemed to split him in two with its suddenness. He did think about Grantaire more than he should, more than was reasonable or right, especially for someone he was not sure he actually _liked_. Somehow, without Enjolras realizing it, Grantaire had wormed himself deeply into Enjolras’s mind. 

“You’re rude. You’re cynical. You’re mocking. But you keep showing up. I don’t know why, and I want to know. Like I said, you’re confusing.” 

“Not really,” said Grantaire softly, after a pause. He was still standing and looking down at Enjolras. “Like all blind men, I only seek the light.” 

“And now you’re spouting nonsense. As usual,” scoffed Enjolras, but even he knew the briskness was just defensive posturing. Grantaire had unnerved him yet again. “And I have work to do.” He stood up, shoving the now ink-covered napkin into his pocket. “I’ll see you later.” 

Grantaire nodded and stepped aside, allowing Enjolras to pass. He had no rebuttal. He didn’t try to kiss Enjolras again. Which made sense, the middle of a theater lobby was no place for it, and even Grantaire would not be so brazen. 

But Enjolras, feeling entirely shaken as he emerged back into the sunset, felt like perhaps he had wanted Grantaire to try again. He would have liked Grantaire to be that brazen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's tattoos are a sly Rilke allusion (shhhh, I know Rilke's German). The France - Spain match actually happened, and I wrote most of the part at the bar this summer during the World Cup, with every intention of updating in July. But, alas, life happened. The dreadful movie is not, however, any real movie that I know of. (Though, given my experience with French films, I wouldn't be surprised if there was a French film like it. :P)


End file.
